


Warm Whispers

by KittieHill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Boners, Awkward Sexual Situations, Barebacking, Bathing/Washing, Billy the Skull - Freeform, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Catheters, Doctor John Watson, Drugged Sherlock, Drunk John, Drunken Handjob, First Kiss, First Time, Friendship, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Injured Sherlock, John is a Good Friend, Lisping Sherlock, Loss of Virginity, Medical, Medical Procedures, Mentions of Masturbation, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Outdoor Sex, Past James Sholto/John Watson, Pets, Prostate Massage, Riding, Sharing Body Heat, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock just needs a wank, Spooning, Texting, Undressed Platonic Cuddling, Yorkshire, handjob, helping hand, penguin - Freeform, relationship changes, smut to come, surprise orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-13 03:25:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4505898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story was a request from ANNUNNAKI. It's far more involved than I would normally go due to the medical side but as I had her as a sounding board and expert I feel quite confident. </p><p>The place where John and Sherlock go is a place local to me. It's in Loftus Woods and is surprisingly called Loftus Waterfall *shock!* I have included picture's below.</p><p>Story is beta'd once more by the wonderful SherlockHolmesconsultingvampire who is brilliant. </p><p>Please comment and let me know what you think! Title of the story may change, I haven't decided.</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="https://c2.staticflickr.com/4/3823/11234254395_9d5d582a21_b.jpg">Waterfall Picture 1</a></p><p> </p><p>  <a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2219/2193504438_9f9e692cf4.jpg">Waterfall Picture 2</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ANNUNNAKI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANNUNNAKI/gifts).



John wasn’t sure why he'd agreed to this ridiculous fact finding mission in the arse end of nowhere. Sherlock had insisted excitedly that he needed to go and find a particular type of larvae which could only be found in an abandoned water source somewhere in North Yorkshire; apparently, a man’s alibi depended on it. John had grit his teeth but nodded that _yes, alright, of course I_ _’ll come._ Sherlock grinned and sauntered to his bedroom to collect the essentials he would need; knowing that it would likely be glassware and test tubes rather than clothing, John began to put together their cases in order to get the first train the next morning.

“Sherlock, do you own any jumpers? It is the North so it’s bound to be cold,” John mumbled unhappily as he folded his own fleecy jumpers into the case.

“No, John,” Sherlock replied. “I have my coat. I’ll manage.”

John sighed and pinched his nose but gave up the fight; Sherlock was an adult and didn’t need coddling like a child despite John’s personal thoughts on the matter.

The journey was uneventful, John stayed awake only by listening to Sherlock’s hurtful deductions on other travellers and passers-by who waited on the platforms, which caused him to laugh heartily until tears flowed down his cheeks. His personal favourite was, “Age 55, still lives with his mother and has a fetish for car alarms”. As they neared their destination, Sherlock got to work on his mobile, arranging a rental car and a room in a nearby B&B to stay in overnight before returning to London the next day. All in all, the trip started off ordinary.

It had started to become more annoying when they climbed into the rental car and set off to the B&B Sherlock stayed silent as he drove towards the hotel before pulling up and flouncing from the car into the reception, where they were promptly informed that they only had a double room left and would that be acceptable? There was a local yearly attraction in town which had caused most of the hotels to be fully booked and this room was only available due to a cancellation. John groaned and dry rubbed his face before nodding it was fine, grabbing the key and beginning the journey up to the bedroom with their cases. Sherlock stayed a few paces back, awkwardly silent so not to incur the wrath of John further. His first attempt at a lighthearted, “I promise I won’t snore,” hadn’t gone down too well as a fellow guest raised his eyebrow and winked at the pair in a way which suggested _I-bet-you_ _’re-definitely-shagging._

Leaving the cases in the room, John grabbed his tea flask and made a large brew to take with them. The weather had started to become chilly as autumn turned to winter; John had noticed more than once the glittering frost on cars and wheelie bins on his way to work on a morning. Grabbing his gloves, coat and flask he watched as Sherlock tied his own scarf before they were off again, walking briskly towards the car to head towards the water where Sherlock needed to be.

The two men made friendly conversation as they weaved up and down country lanes; Sherlock tutted and rolled his eyes each time John excitedly pointed out animals in the fields either side of the road before informing John of every piece of relevant information he had discovered thanks to vigorous experimentation of cow's stomachs. John grimaced and nodded as the detective went into excruciating detail about bile ducts and regurgitation rates of cattle.

Eventually, they came to a stop in a tiny village which seemed to consist of only a post office, village shop and a church. John climbed from the car and stretched his arms above his head, listening to the satisfying pop of his joints realigning as Sherlock checked the map locations he had printed back at Baker Street. Setting off at a fast rate, Sherlock turned onto a small street and began to walk towards a farmer’s field.

John grumbled unhappily and grabbed his flask before setting off after his friend; they walked side by side with Sherlock discussing the local flora and fauna and the history of the area. John nodded in interest as he was informed of Tudor churches being torn down and sold to wealthy landowners whilst the monks and nuns were forced onto the streets. After almost two hours of walking in an attempt to find their destination through winding mud paths, the men stopped at a large and very well hidden stream which trickled beneath a bridge and led to extremely beautiful waterfall which made John’s heart flutter. It was a picturesque location obviously; the surrounding area was pretty in an untouched wilderness type of way which seemed to shimmer with the early afternoon light through the trees.

“Its nice. Romantic,” John found himself saying before cursing his idiotic brain for speaking.

“Hmm,” Sherlock grumbled in his usual _I_ _’m-not-really-listening_ type of way.

John was thankful for Sherlock’s rudeness for once, his comment forgotten as Sherlock rummaged around in the large pockets of his Belstaff to reach for vials, test tubes, slides and goodness knows what else whilst John stood with his back against a tree and sipped at his freshly poured tea. The older man watched as Sherlock tilted his head, seemingly looking between the ground and tree canopy around them before squatting low and examining the leaves on the floor, tutting when something was seemingly amiss.

“If this is here… and he was over there…” Sherlock turned and glared at the stream which led to the waterfall. “He obviously went into the water afterwards leaving no time to commit the assault.”

“Obviously,” John agreed without really understanding Sherlock’s comments. “Didn’t you come for larvae or something?”

“All in good time,” Sherlock grumbled. “Could you hand me my phone?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose and walked to Sherlock’s side, rummaging through the glass filled pockets to grasp the phone and pass it to Sherlock who smiled and nodded as John returned to his position by the tree.

The sudden twinge in John’s abdomen made him aware of a certain biological need which hadn’t been taken care of for a few hours, not since the train station. John put a hand on his belly and realised that he needed to pee quite badly; smiling to himself, he looked around at the various trees in which to piss against and moved away from the tree, putting the flask onto the floor before turning his back and unzipping his flies.

“John, no!” Sherlock cried, his mouth open in horror. “You’ll contaminate the area! Go and do your business elsewhere!”

“I’m only peeing! It’s already soaking out here from the ever constant rain and the stream! My pee isn’t going to cause an issue,” John argued but his penis had seemingly resolved itself to refuse to work in the presence of the great, annoying git.

“John, if you contaminate my scene then all of this will have been for nothing and Mr Wilson will be condemned despite the fact he _didn_ _’t_ commit the crime,” Sherlock insisted, his gloved hands still holding his various instruments. “Please?”

“Christ. Yes, yes alright, I’m going,” John grumbled, zipping his trousers and walking up the muddy pathway, thankful of the strips of wood which somebody had embedded into the ground for better purchase. He walked to the top of the bank and turned left, continuing on the pathway and walking alongside the stream before crossing the bridge onto the other side. He kicked a few pebbles into the water and watched it ripple outwards, the memory reminding him of years spent with Harry back at home, throwing stones into the local ponds and trying to out skim one another with flat stones. He turned away and unzipped his trousers, releasing his cock and pointing it towards the ground; he winced at the chilly gust of wind touching his skin and relaxed his bladder until the hot stream began to rush onto the woods floor. John sighed happily, feeling the pressure on his bladder decrease dramatically as he allowed himself a moment of peace and tranquillity surrounded by nature without the whirlwind of movement and volume which was Sherlock.

His feelings towards Sherlock had become confusing recently; where once they had a solid base of friendship, John suddenly felt it slip from beneath his feet to become more treacherous. He had found himself watching Sherlock from afar more closely than ever before, the way the detective moved was feline like and graceful, all fluid movements and choreographed actions. His long, flexible fingers had become a focus point in John’s mind; watching Sherlock write or type on the laptop had caused an erection or two ( _or several)_ which had stunned John. His throat, perfectly pale and long had bewitched John as he watched Sherlock swallow or deduce, his adams apple bobbing with each gulp of breath.

Sherlock’s eyes though; those cerulean blue eyes were what kept John awake at night and left the doctor tossing and turning in bed, his hand around his prick as he imagined looking up at Sherlock, keeping their eyes fixed on one another as Sherlock slipped his cock inside of John's warm, pliant and desperate body…. _wait, wait, wait, I_ _’m not gay!_

John realised he was standing in a forest holding his not quite flaccid cock in his hand; without the help of a DI on the force he wouldn’t be lucky enough to talk his way out of a public indecency arrest, though the chances of anybody coming through the woods was slim on a day like today.

“Jawwwwwn?” A rumbling of Sherlock’s voice echoed through the trees and startled a few roosting pigeons into flight. John sighed into the tranquillity of the woods, “No, I’m not rushing back with my cock out just to hand you a pen or your phone you massive twat.”

John tucked himself away and zipped up his trousers, wishing he had brought the anti-bacterial hand gel with him from his bag. Stepping back over the bridge he listened to the silence of the woods and slowly walked back to where he'd left Sherlock.

Except Sherlock wasn’t where John left him.

Sherlock was _in_ the water; his coat billowing around him as Sherlock desperately attempted to grasp onto the slippery rocks at the water’s edge beneath the waterfall where the water was almost eight feet deep. John took off into a run, pulled off his coat and dropped it to the floor as he rushed to Sherlock’s side.

“Fucking hell!” John swore, awkwardly leaning across over the stones to grasp Sherlock’s arms in an attempt to pull him up. Sherlock’s winced at the pain in his ribs where he had hit them against the bank when he fell; his face was pale, his hair soaking and stuck to his face as he tried to grab onto John's arms, soaking the doctor’s jumper along his sleeves and front. John immediately slipped into Captain mode and put on his quiet and calm voice as he looked down at his flatmate shivering in the water beneath. “Sherlock, I need you to stop squirming and grab my arms on the count of three.”

Sherlock nodded shakily, stilling himself as much as possible without sinking; John grabbed Sherlock tightly and pulled with a ‘ _one_ _… two_ _…three!_ _’_

John managed to get Sherlock back onto solid ground and immediately began to strip Sherlock of his great coat; something which seemed impossible to Sherlock who desperately fought against John at every opportunity. “No, John!”

“Sherlock, you’re going to freeze if we don’t get those wet clothes off you,” John insisted, his tone soft but the words chosen to show how dire the situation could get if the annoying prat didn’t listen.

Sherlock grit his teeth before allowing the coat to fall from his shoulders and the gloves to be pulled from his hands. “That’s it. No more.” The detective winced at a pain in his ankle which had started to swell already beneath drenched socks.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock,” John sighed. “Here, at least take my coat.”

“I-I don’t need it,” Sherlock shook his head softly, aware that his teeth _may_ be chattering but refusing to show weakness in front of his best friend. “A-Ambient temperature isn’t freezing, the water was ten degrees and not cold enough to cause immediate concern.”

John bit his lower lip and fought the urge to scream and rant at Sherlock for being so bloody careless when he had only popped off for a piss. Standing up, he left Sherlock at the bank of the stream and walked to the tea flask before pouring some into the cup which doubled as the lid. Reaching into his coat pocket he nabbed the sachets of sugar taken from the room and poured them into the drink before handing it to Sherlock. “Drink this.”

Sherlock looked at the cup before bringing it to his mouth and taking a small sip, gasping as the warmth of the still hot tea warmed his mouth and throat.

“Did any bare skin go into the water?” John asked carefully, looking over Sherlock’s body critically and watching as Sherlock shook his head with an upturned eyebrow. “I don’t want you getting leeches.”

“Ah,” Sherlock nodded before taking another sip. “Do you think there are any in there?”

“I imagine so,” John shrugged. “And no, I’m not finding some for you to take home.”

Sherlock pouted and returned to his drink, finishing the last drops and handing the lid back to John who replaced it on the drink to ensure it stayed warm. The doctor handed the flask to Sherlock to keep him warm as he began to plot how best to deal with the situation; as a doctor, he knew that Sherlock needed to get out of his wet clothes and keep warm. The easiest way to do this would be for them to strip Sherlock out of his wet ones and replace them with John’s relatively dry ones whilst lying together to ensure their bodies touch and share body heat. A thought which immediately sent a worrying ripple through John’s body at the idea of sharing such an intimate moment with the man he has been wanking over for months.

“You’re relatively healthy and young,” John said instead, startling Sherlock slightly at the sudden volume. “Although you are too skinny, you’ll lose heat quicker but there’s not much I can do about that right now.”

“We just need to get to the car and then the hotel,” Sherlock insisted, angrily cursing his transport as his teeth clacked violently, narrowly missing biting his tongue.

“It’s a two hour walk to the car, longer if I attempt to carry you which I can’t. My shoulder isn’t strong enough and your ribs could be broken,” John whispered nervously, remembering the hobbling detective attempting to climb onto the dry bank. “And that was without you possibly spraining your ankle and drowning with algae sludge in your lungs,” he attempted to joke but the thought gave a worrying start in his brain as he wondered exactly _what_ was in the water.

“I-I’ll be f-f-fine,” Sherlock shuddered and curled into himself a little more. “Just need to get dry.”

John lifted his phone from his pocket and realised he had no signal deep in the woods. Cursing technology he grabbed for Sherlock’s phone and realised it was completely waterlogged and ruined; John sighed and held his head in his hands as he attempted to think of another plan.

* * *

 

John checked his phone; twenty three minutes had passed since he had pulled Sherlock from the water and the detective wasn’t getting any better. Sherlock's teeth had started to chatter harder and more loudly making John worry that he might break them off in his mouth if they didn’t warm him up soon. John had put on his coat once more as his own body became chilly but he was more than willing to give it up for Sherlock who once again, stubbornly refused it.

“If you don’t want to take the coat, let me at least take your shirt off and put mine on you. It’s practically dry and warm,” John insisted, wondering how ethical it would be to tie Sherlock down and strip him before redressing him.

Sherlock shook his head, damp curls sending small droplets of water onto the foliage around them. “No.”

“Fucks sake,” John swore. “Can I at least check your temperature?”

Sherlock stilled, seemingly working out the logistics in his head before nodding once and allowing John to crowd into his side, one hand slipping beneath the wet fabric of Sherlock’s shirt to place a hand against cool skin to check the temperature of the survival induced blood flow.

“I think it’s about 36°C,” John explained before grabbing the barely warm flask and pouring the last cupful of tea into the lid. “Drink.”

“Wha-What I wouldn’t g-give for a scotch,” Sherlock chuckled dryly as his hands shook in an attempt to raise the cup to his lips. John frowned and helped the younger man drink before commenting.

“Alcohol gives a false heat sense and confuses your body response. Your skin might feel warmer for a while as blood rushes there as you get flushed, but it will quickly cool down and return to your major organs and decrease your temperature as a result. And it’s your major organs that are the most important, obviously,” John mumbled as he tipped the cup up a little higher, his other hand surreptitiously moving to cup Sherlock’s ankle softly to check for damage and whether it was sprained or broken. The loud yelp which Sherlock emitted was enough to have John frowning dramatically.

“C-Caffine is a diuretic and will make me urinate,” Sherlock argued. “You’ll make me dehydrated by giving me tea.”

“Yes, but I need to keep you warm and to keep your blood glucose up, especially since you’re being an arse about stripping off,” John snapped, ashamed of his inability to keep calm in a situation he was trained for. The army doctor momentarily wished he was in a warmer climate or could at least build a fire but with no lighter or matches and wet wood, drenched through from the ever constant rain and stream. John had absolutely no survivalist skills for living in the wild, it was merely a pipe dream.

“We’re going to need to start thinking of a long term solution, Sherlock,” John informed his friend, watching with increasing concern as his friend’s lips took on a blue tinge whilst his body became listless. Sherlock still held the flask of now empty tea in a valiant attempt to keep warm but his fingers had become numb and uncooperative as he slipped further into coldness.

“The s-su-sun’s going down,” Sherlock mumbled, his body shaking and trembling as the weather began to cool further around them. John felt the cold sinking into his very bones as he cradled Sherlock close to him as much as possible without getting himself wet. He didn’t want to soak his clothing in case he finally managed to convince Sherlock to wrap himself up in them. His own hands felt freezing, numb to the touch meaning he could no longer accurately gage Sherlock’s body temperature anymore resulting in wrong estimations and possible mishandling of the situation. He checked Sherlock’s gloves and realised the leather interior was still soaking making them unusable and cursed himself for leaving his own in the rental car back in the village square.

“When will L-Lestrade be here?” Sherlock asked suddenly, the first question he has asked for a long while.

“Lestrade?” John queried. “Sherlock?”

“He should be here. It’s his bloody crime scene!” The confused detective shouted angrily.

“Sherlock? What’s your date of birth?” John asked, watching tensely as Sherlock frowned and let his eyes drop closed.

“Yeah, okay. This is too much now,” John mumbled, realising that hypothermia had definitely set in, grabbing Sherlock and manhandling him onto his back to allow access to the buttons on Sherlock’s ridiculous silk shirt. The detective looked on meekly as John unbuttoned his garment before pulling off his own coat and wrapping it around the skinny, paler than ever body of his best friend.

“You can’t do that. You’ll catch your death,” Sherlock frowned looking at John.

John desperately wanted to laugh at that comment and Sherlock’s oblivious naivety for his own situation, his heart was racing as he reached to unbutton Sherlock’s trousers only to be slapped away. John winced as cold fingers hit against his own, causing a shocking pain which rippled through his body and made him feel momentarily sick.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you are doing J-John Watson!” Sherlock spoke loudly yet calmly. “You’re trying to seduce me! Add me to your l-list of conquests but I won’t be part of it. No sir! Bisexual or not, you can’t have me like that, not here! N-Not now!”

John blinked and blinked again trying to work out how Sherlock knew about his bisexuality but quickly discounted it. The detective was disoriented and confused but allowed John to manhandle him into his arms so the pair could cuddle together in a valiant attempt to conserve body heat through their clothing and John’s coat draped over the top of them.

“Sherlock? It’s getting too cold and I’m starting to worry. I need to go up there,” John pointed to the relatively large hill close by, “so I can get some signal but I need you to stay still and keep covered with the coat, alright?”

“Can you ask Molly if she has those septic feet for me?” Sherlock asked with a childlike lilt to his voice as he looked up open eyed at his best friend, a soft smile covering his lips.

“Of course. You stay here and wait for Lestrade, okay?” John whispered, kissing the top of Sherlock’s curls as he stood. His mind whirled as it caught up with the gesture but John didn’t allow himself to think about it too much as he took off an in awkward jog towards the hill, scrabbling up the muddy path to stand at the top and wave his mobile in the air until a single solitary bar of service made itself known. John’s stomach fluttered as he clicked through his contact list until he reached Mycroft’s name; he dialled the number and listened to it ring once before the posh voice rang through the tinny speakers.

“Dr Watson? What do I owe the pleasure?” Mycroft sneered evidently.

“Mycroft,” John gasped, his emotions levelling out to calm as he began to think about the information he would need to pass to the rescue. “Sherlock’s been in an accident. We need an airlift out of here.”

The sound which escaped Mycroft could have either been a gasp of horror or a sigh of impatience as John heard the sounds of clicking from Mycroft’s laptop. “I have your location.”

“Good, okay good,” John nodded more to himself than anything. “Sherlock has a broken or fractured ankle, I can’t be sure without proper examination. He’s also hypothermic so we’ll need the correct medical intervention.”

“Of course,” Mycroft spoke softly. “However John, there is an issue with your location. Dense woodland, poor visibility and increased wind speed will cause trouble for the helicopter pilot.”

“How long?” John asked “until they can get to us?”

“You’re looking at between 90 mins to two hours,” Mycroft gulped, a tiny amount of panic lacing his words. “I trust you can keep him stable for that long?”

“Two hours?” John spat. “Mycroft, he could die!”

“It’s the very best I can do, John.” Mycroft remained calm under pressure. “I can try to hurry things along but you _must_ stay with him. Ensure you do whatever it takes to treat him, do you understand?”

John felt a pang of anger followed by a rush of anxiety. He nodded before realising that Mycroft couldn’t see, seething through clenched teeth. “Yes, I understand.”

“I will be in touch when you arrive,” the politician said before hanging up, leaving John dumbstruck still holding the phone.

John inhaled a deep breath and squared his shoulders as though he was going into battle. Turning back to the path he quickly made his way back down to Sherlock’s side and slotted himself against the detective’s shivering frame. “Mycroft’s sending a helicopter.”

“C-Cock-Cockcroft,” Sherlock stuttered before chuckling dryly to himself. “Tw-Twatcroft.”

John smiled before wrapping his arms around his friend. “We’re going to have to get close, Sherlock, need to keep you warm until the doctors come.”

“You’re m-m-my doc-tor,” Sherlock insisted lazily, his voice weak and his speech affected worse than ever.

Time seemed to tick away painfully slowly as John attempted to keep Sherlock awake and focussed with pointless questions and his own ridiculous attempts at deductions, hoping that Sherlock would at least attempt to put him right, but it seemed that Sherlock was beyond caring for being the most intelligent person in the woods. The detective slumped slightly into John’s embrace, attempting to move a strand of his hair from his face and missing each time due to the impaired coordination from the frigidness of his digits.

“Yeah, that’s it,” John nodded and moved to untangle himself from Sherlock’s long limbs. “This has gone on too long now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked slowly before attempting to speak but found that his words were slurred as though he had drank six pints. He frowned and attempted to logically fight the impediment but found it impossible.

“We don’t have blankets or hot water bottles to keep your temperature up, Sherlock,” John explained as he began to untie Sherlock’s shoes and pull off his socks carefully so not to upset Sherlock’s sore ankle. “I can’t verify your core temperature accurately but I don’t like the symptoms you’re showing. We need to warm you up.”

Sherlock watched with wide eyes as John moved his cold fingers to his own waistband, clicking open the button and fly before slowly and carefully pulling them down his shorter legs until he was lying on top of the leafy ground in only tiny y-front pants which did nothing at all to cover his modesty. Pulling off his shirt he shivered in the cold as he kept the clothing close to his body to keep them warm before moving to peel off the still wet clothing from Sherlock’s skin. The detective protested weakly before letting his head fall back to the soft, leaf covered floor as John carefully and methodically pulled off Sherlock’s trousers, socks and underwear before redressing him in John's own warm and dry clothes. Realising that Sherlock’s long legs wouldn’t fit in jeans designed for a short arse, John inhaled sharply as the fabric stopped midway up Sherlock’s thighs leaving his flaccid and pale cock completely bare. John allowed his traitorous gaze sweep over the area; focussing on the patch of black hair above the shaft and the small, shrivelled up penis nesting between his friend's thighs. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down before groaning, his voice slurring as he spoke, “It’s n-not normally t-that sm…small.”

The tension between the two men was broken as John chuckled softly and continued attempting to redress his friend with limited options. His socks covered Sherlock’s long toes and bust ankle which allowed the detective to be covered from toe to thigh; John used the dry spot on the back of his wet jumper to dry off Sherlock’s body before wrapping him in the dry shirt once more and then laying his padded coat over the top of them to allow it to cover their torso and crotches.

John shivered as his now almost naked body pressed against the cold floor. Bits of stick and mud pressed into his flesh as he laid on his weak side to ensure that Sherlock could pull himself closer into his friend's embrace. Sherlock shuffled onto his side and allowed John to place the jumper up around his nipples as they pressed their skin together, the feeling of warmth passing between them as Sherlock wrapped the coat further around his bare arse to ensure it too was covered.

“N-Now, p-people will de-defin-definitely talk,” Sherlock laughed, watching as the creases in John’s eyes got larger as they laughed at the ridiculousness of their situation.

“People do little else,” John quoted back before putting his good arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulling him closer. “Put your nose in my neck. You’ll be warmer if we keep you breathing this way.”

Sherlock nodded and followed instructions without argument, his cold nose suddenly pressing into the one part of John’s body which didn’t feel cold. John startled, flinching away only to still as Sherlock’s panting breaths calmed into a regular pattern.

“Any excuse for a cuddle, eh?” John whispered, his thumb stroking over goose pimpled flesh against Sherlock’s hip as they waited for rescue.

* * *

 

Forty minutes passed in what felt like a lifetime. John’s phone was nestled between their bodies where it wouldn’t fall into the stream or get lost; the pair were swapping stories of childhood ( _John was talking, Sherlock was listening as he was unable to communicate without biting his tongue)_ when the sound of John’s ringtone startled them.

John didn’t know how Mycroft managed to boost his signal but he didn’t care, he was bloody grateful to have the British government to hand.

“John, ETA 30 minutes. They’re going to land in a small clearing east of your location and continue on foot. They shouldn’t be long,” Mycroft said calmly as though he was enquiring what was for lunch. “How is he?”

“He’s cold but conscious,” John reassured the older Holmes. “He’ll keep until they come,” he added cheerily hoping it conveyed the message.

“Very well,” Mycroft rang off leaving John blinking at his phone before lowering it back to the ground.

“They’ll be here soon.” The relief that John felt was palpable; his heart seemed slightly lighter and the tension which had been held across his shoulders lessened as he thought of finally getting some help for the situation. Sherlock seemed warmer now their bodies were crushed together under the padding of John’s winter coat, something which interested a certain part of John’s anatomy. The doctor wasn’t sure if it was the proximity of Sherlock’s body to his own, the relief of rescue, his dormant feelings for his flatmate or the rush of oxytocin but John desperately attempted to calm his overzealous erection to no avail. His pants did nothing to hide the pushing bulge which pressed against Sherlock’s hip.

John felt mortified at his body for betraying him in the most embarrassing way possible, especially considering that Sherlock’s own penis lay flaccid and shrunk into a micropenis due to the cold. John wasn’t sure which would be a worse situation, this one or one where Sherlock is actually able to maintain an erection to bump against his own. He could only hope that if he shut his eyes tightly, the heat from his red cheeks might warm Sherlock’s freezing skin.

“S’alright,” Sherlock mumbled softly. His ability to speak rapidly disappearing

“Shhh, sorry. Not long now, Sherlock. We’ll be home at Baker Street before you know it,” John smiled reassuringly despite knowing that Sherlock would be taken into hospital and cared for.

“I know,” Sherlock nodded, before frowning. “Your feelings… mine too.”

John swallowed audibly and allowed his thumb to stroke over Sherlock’s skin extremely softly, more like a ghost of a touch than an actual caress.

“ _Doctor Watson?_ _”_ A voice from the trees called, making John’s stomach lurch with relief. Not wanting to shout in Sherlock’s ear, the doctor pulled away from his friend and ensured Sherlock was completely wrapped in the coat before standing up and slipping on his shoes. Realising how ridiculous and obscene he looked in nothing but walking boots, tiny white pants and an erection he quickly grabbed Sherlock’s wet long coat and wrapped it around himself before shouting his reply and watching as three men rounded the corner complete with a lightweight backboard on which to carry Sherlock. John exhaled shakily and held out his hand for the emergency workers, keeping his composure before immediately getting to work to stabilise Sherlock for treatment.

“Sherlock, you need to stay very, very still, do you hear?” John whispered directly into Sherlock’s ear, his hand running through raven, frizzed curls softly.

“Yessss,” Sherlock drawled as the paramedics got to work on attaching him to the stretcher. John understood the reason, any movement could destabilise the blood flow to the detective’s brain and cause massive injury to Sherlock’s most precious belonging. John watched as the men transferred Sherlock and wrapped him in a blanket, handing John his jumper back to allow the doctor the chance to at least wear something. John ignored the jumper and picked up Sherlock’s clothes, tying his laces on his boots before following the paramedics through green fields to the large air ambulance which awaited them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although I mention James Cook Hospital, I in no way suggest that I know anything about the running of the department. I only use it as it has a trauma centre and it's the closest one to where I based the waterfall; I've also been an inpatient so I can explain certain details but I'm only using it as a writing tool.
> 
> So yeh...

John sat in the bucket chair; immediately handing over the cause of Sherlock’s condition, how long he'd spent on average in the water and what he did in an attempt to help his friend and watched as the doctors milled around Sherlock in the tiny space. Sherlock looked so lost and broken that it momentarily forced tears to John’s eyes as he remembered being the doctor on the other end back in Afghanistan, attempting to stabilise a young soldier before they could get back to camp to operate. A shiver ran down his spine as he watched them take out a rectal thermometer and pop it inside Sherlock with limited explanation of what they were about to do, startling Sherlock who squeaked softly and slammed closed his eyes in mortification.

“33.9 degrees,” one of the crew mumbled to John over the steady thrum of the helicopter blade. “We need to start protocol as he’s borderline to moderate hypothermic.”

John’s heart thudded as the words sunk in; it was worse than he'd expected. John noticed the shiny space blanket being draped over Sherlock’s prone form before bundles of other fabrics were layered over the top, warming the detective slowly but effectively.

John remembered their first case together; he had watched Sherlock fighting with the paramedics the night of the cabbie shooting when they kept attempting to place the orange shock blanket over his shoulders. The detective had fought angrily, insisting he wasn’t in shock and didn’t need the stupid blanket; John wondered how he felt now and immediately felt bad for smiling at the memory.

“Orange,” Sherlock whispered from his position, his cerulean eyes flickering open to look at John with a soft smile.

“Mind reader,” John laughed.

“Mr Holmes, we need to put this mask over your face, okay?” The paramedic spoke softly but not condescendingly down at Sherlock. “Need you to take some nice big breaths for me.”

Sherlock attempted to nod but was kept in place by the bundles of various blankets so instead whispered, “Yes." The doctor placed the humidified oxygen over Sherlock’s lips and turned the valve, listening to the hiss of the gas escaping directly into the plastic cover.

“Okay, now I need to put an IV into you, however, I’ll need to put it directly into your femoral artery due to the constriction of your blood vessels from the cold, okay?” The paramedic continued speaking, obviously convinced that John and Sherlock were partners as he flicked back the blankets to reach Sherlock’s groin. The detective whimpered, masked by the oxygen mask across his face as he slammed shut his eyes as once more, his small penis was shown to the entire crew of the helicopter.

John stared, actually stared at Sherlock’s pink penis as all concept of his professionalism left him for the briefest moment. The paramedic pushed for the artery and inserted the IV before pulling the blankets back over, ignoring John’s flushed pink face as he concentrated on everything but Sherlock’s embarrassed face. The detective had slammed his eyes closed and breathed with heavier gasps as the shame slowly passed, and the first trickle of warmed saline ran through his body.

“Coming in to land, ETA 2 minutes,” the pilot said through the tinny speakers in the doctor's helmet. John exhaled once more and nodded that he understood, pulling closed a borrowed blanket which was far smaller than he had expected; John could either choose to show his y-fronts or his chest. He opted for chest as he watched the doctors prepare to transfer Sherlock over to the trauma unit.

“Which hospital will we be at?” John asked.

“James Cook University, Middlesbrough,” the doctor replied.

John nodded and waited for the familiar bump which suggested they had landed before the madness of the doors opening. Crowds of people moved Sherlock onto the trolley and pushed him down the ramp into the A&E building, whilst John numbly followed behind like a lost puppy, vaguely aware that the roads had been closed whilst the helicopter landed on the helipad. He was momentarily glad that they had come somewhere outside of London. The blog wasn’t as popular elsewhere in the country so chances of him being recognised whilst walking around like a flasher were much lower.

John followed the stream of doctors into the assessment room of the trauma centre. The army medic caught a few words being barked from above Sherlock but the accent immediately put him off and caused him to frown in confusion.

“I want an ECG, bloods and temperature reading,” the ward sister ordered as she pulled the curtain around the bed closed and looked over at John. “Who are you?”

“Dr John Watson… I’m his…” he trailed off before adding, “friend.”

“Very well, Dr Watson, you understand what’s going on?” The A&E doctor in charge asked, looking the man up and down and noticing his strange get up.

“Yes,” John nodded, his teeth immediately bared. “I served three tours in Afghanistan. I understand hypothermia.”

The trauma doctor stilled and looked down at the compact blond man; his hands had clenched in anger which he quickly released with an exhale. “Sorry.”

“Not at all,” the other man smiled softly. “I’m Dr Galloway and Mr Holmes will be under my care.”

Sherlock grumbled as a nurse lifted his blankets and once more introduced a rectal thermometer before taking a reading. “35.5.”

“Hear that, Lock? You’re getting warmer,” John smiled, ignoring the sudden onset of pet names.

“As he’s stable, would you like to get dressed? We can spare a set of scrubs if you’d be comfortable.” Dr Galloway smiled before showing John to the toilets and handing him a set of green NHS scrubs in roughly his size.

“Thanks,” John mumbled and locked the door behind him. Sitting on the lid of the toilet he took a deep breath and dropped his head into his hands; the day had not happened the way he had expected it and the adrenalin was slowly pumping into his veins making him antsy and uncomfortable. He washed his face and dried it on the rough paper towelling before slipping on the scrubs and a pair of too big shoes which the doctor had obviously found lying around in the staffroom. Grabbing Sherlock’s discarded coat, he walked back to the trauma unit and frowned when Sherlock’s cubicle was empty.

“Chest X-ray,” one of the nurses smiled as she passed by. Her white teeth shone from beneath plump pink lips which would once have titillated John, but now he found it dull as he took a seat and waited for Sherlock to return.

* * *

 

Sherlock lay on the awkwardly uncomfortable bench whilst the radiographer instructed him to breathe in and out for the x-rays. The detective was unhappy that he had allowed himself to get into this position; to allow John to see him in such a negative light was horrific and all of his work had been in vain now John had seen his tiny, cold penis.

The younger man had grown aware of John’s lustful gaze; noticing that John stared at him for longer at crime scenes or when they spoke. The doctor stood closer than before and touched Sherlock far more regularly than previously, although it had always been completely innocent and friendly touches on the shoulder or fingers when handing over cups or phones. Sherlock’s stomach had flipped with excitement with every caress as his own feelings had grown too. He had developed a fondness for John on the first night when he had killed Jefferson Hope; the man was a complete paradox, he was a trained beige jumper wearing assassin with a steady hand and a bum leg.

Over the following months, Sherlock had found other things about John he enjoyed. The older man ensured he ate and slept even when Sherlock deemed it boring or unnecessary. He kept Sherlock away from drugs and was a constant source of friendship, especially when Sherlock was uncomfortable or unsure of social niceties or when something was a _bit not good._

Eventually, these feelings slowly began to turn sexual; Sherlock would awaken from erotic dreams with an erection or a sticky mess covering his lower stomach where he'd rutted himself against the mattress. He could never remember the intricate details of the dreams but he knew that John was in all of them; Sherlock’s masturbationary habits increased ten-fold after he accidently stormed in on John in the shower. The doctor seemingly had begun his own masturbation session and was half hard as Sherlock burst into the shower and demanded access to John’s shampoo for a vital experiment. The doctor had given in but immediately raved at Sherlock that he couldn’t just enter the bathroom whenever he felt like it. John had made Sherlock promise to delete the memory to which Sherlock agreed but secretly cherished instead.

Lying on the hard bench and breathing on cue, Sherlock thought back to their naked cuddles of which he thankfully retained some precious memories despite his confusion. He was mortified at his own appearance of course, but John had been perfect; the warm body beside him had poked his hip with the long and thick erection, which had caused Sherlock’s mouth to water in a desperate desire to touch and taste, to consume everything John Watson could give him. Sherlock realised rapidly that he was no longer cold and was able to achieve an erection; shutting his mind off, he thought of the missed opportunity to prove Mr Wilson’s alibi and felt himself softening below.

“Just your ankle Mr Holmes, and then we’re done.” The radiographer smiled as they moved his ankle into position on the cold metal plate to check for breaks. Sherlock hissed with every painful caress before the nurses decreed that he was finished, sliding him across to the trolley once more to take him back to his cubicle where John waited.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning**
> 
> Medical intervention and Catheter use. Nothing too graphic but thought id mention it.

Sherlock smiled weakly as he was wheeled back into the cubicle, and his eyes met John’s. The blond had changed into scrubs and now looked every inch the competent doctor that Sherlock imagined during long, dark nights in his bedroom. John’s face lit up with happiness as he looked over at Sherlock’s pink tinged skin and brighter eyes; knowing that Sherlock was out of the woods ( _figuratively and literally_ ) had caused a bubble of laughter to build in his lower stomach and a smile to break out across his face

“Oh, stop smiling,” Sherlock grumbled but gave a genuine smile of his own to match John’s as the nurse exited the cubicle and left the two men alone.

“How are you feeling?” John asked.

“Like I’ve been lying on a bed of leaves, soaking wet and freezing for hours,” Sherlock replied. “Since regaining consciousness I’m bursting for the toilet.”

John seemed to still and consider the thought for a moment. “I’ll get a pee bottle.”

Sherlock blanched and groaned, slamming his eyes together in mortification as he realised that John would see his penis yet again, however, his stomach was beginning to protest at the fullness of his bladder, which was now distended against his skin.

John walked to the ward sister and smiled politely before asking if he could have a bottle which was promptly handed to him. John returned to Sherlock’s bedside and handed it to the detective lying with a pout on his face. “Okay, it’s probably easier if we sit you up a bit.”

Sherlock huffed uncomfortably at the ache in his chest before allowing John to manhandle him further up the pillows. John pressed the button on the bed to bring the head end up to keep Sherlock comfortable as John pulled back the covers and pulled up Sherlock’s hospital gown to bare his penis. The detective winced and looked at the god awful curtain which depicted various pictures of the local area in cartoon style.

The doctor calmed his breathing to seem normal and composed as he picked up the pee bottle and arranged it around the tip of Sherlock’s penis, noticing the younger man whimper slightly under his breath as John touched his skin for the first time before grabbing Sherlock’s hand and wrapping it around the bottle.

“Just relax, Sherlock,” John soothed. “It’s all in position so you can go.”

“Yes, yes I’m very aware of how to urinate, thank you, _doctor,_ _”_ Sherlock grumbled, closing his eyes and concentrating on expelling the huge amount of urine built up since that morning when they had left the B&B.

Sherlock tried everything in his power to force himself to go; he thought of running water and begged his transport to release without any relief. Pushing down on his muscles was useless and even rubbing his hand over the swelling of his bladder gave absolutely no results as he whined and grumbled with discomfort.

“Shall I turn the tap on?” John asked carefully starting the tap which was against the wall. Sherlock listened to the flowing water and wiggled in an attempt to relax his muscles but still, nothing happened.

“Is it… me being here?” John queried. “Shall I stand outside?”

Sherlock nodded; although they had shared a home for a long while, they had never really bothered with privacy when it came to peeing. Sherlock would pee whilst John brushed his teeth or vice versa but that was as far as it went; perhaps it was his ridiculous transport being difficult for no reason.

John stood and walked outside of the cubicle, pulling across the curtain and standing with his back against the wall as he watched the busy hustle and bustle of an A&E trauma ward. He strangely missed the adrenalin soaked shifts where he would be rushing between beds, barking orders at other staff and saving lives rather than writing prescriptions for asthma inhalers and dealing with thrush. His eyes were drawn to the back of one of the nurses who seemed to feel the gaze and turned around.

“John?” She gasped, smiling and walking over to grab him in a friendly bear hug.

“Claire?” John replied and held her closely as they held each other. “My God, it’s been ages.”

“Are you hurt?” Claire asked nervously, before noticing John’s scrubs. “Or working?”

“Neither. My friend got hurt and he’s in there.” John nodded to the closed curtain. “How long have you worked here?”

“Came back straight after the army,” the nurse smiled sadly. “I heard about the gunshot… I’m sorry, I couldn’t even say goodbye before they evacuated you.”

John nodded and sighed, “Well, I’m still here. And you?”

“Married, two kids,” Claire sighed and rolled her eyes. “All very domesticated, I’m afraid.”

“Johhhhn? For God's sakes!” an angry voice came through the curtain causing John to grimace and look apologetically at his old friend. “He can’t piss.”

Claire laughed heartily and slapped John on the back. “Well, we’ll be transferring him soon. We’ve got a massive traffic accident coming in and we’ll need all of the beds.”

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” John smiled, knowing that the staff wouldn’t ask for help from somebody in off the street.

“I better get back. I’ll let you know when the porter comes to take you to…” Claire started, looking over at Sherlock’s notes. “Oh, looks like he has a private room set aside. Lucky man.”

John shook his head softly knowing that Mycroft had obviously interfered, even from so far away. Claire nodded and moved to Dr Galloway’s side, having a hushed conversation with the doctor whilst John returned to Sherlock’s side.

“My God, everywhere we go,” Sherlock mumbled unhappily. “You _have_ to charm women! It’s a mental disorder, John Watson!”

“I don’t have to charm anybody,” John responded. “It was an old friend from the army. She worked closely with me in the field hospital. It’s nice seeing her and even if I _was_ charming her. It’s none of your business.”

“It is when you’ll leave me gravely injured and hospitalised to go and jiggle with the woman or whatever it is you do,” Sherlock waved dismissively.

“So, you’re obviously in a bad mood because you can’t pee then, eh?” John asked, attempting to be light hearted but noticing Sherlock’s furrowed brow immediately. “Okay, we’ll give it a little more time and you’ll have to drink more to help.” John turned to reach for the plastic beaker on the edge of the sink; pouring water into it, he passed it to Sherlock and watched as the detective took tentative sips.

Time and one large jug of water didn’t make any difference to their current predicament, and only made the detective’s discomfort worse as his bladder continued to swell and push against his skin. John caught the grimace on Sherlock’s face and sighed, “Look, if you can’t go, we’ll need to catheterise you before you hurt yourself.”

Sherlock bit his lip and shook his head. “No.”

“It’s not up for discussion,” John insisted as he sat back down in the hard plastic chair beside the bed. “You’ll start damaging your kidneys if you don’t release it, not to mention the resulting chemical imbalance in your body.”

“I… I don’t want it,” Sherlock blinked back tears, shaking his head wildly until he went dizzy and held onto the rails of the bed. “John, please.”

Realising that Sherlock was on the edge of a panic attack, John softened his tone and soothed his friend the best he could. “Come on now, none of that. It’s an easy procedure, in and out in no time.”

Sherlock shook his head sadly again, one tear slipping down his cheek as his breathing became faster.

“Sherlock, talk to me. Why are you so afraid?” John soothed, his hand moving to skim over Sherlock’s in a brief gesture of kindness.

“I… before…” Sherlock started before blowing out a breath. “When I first met Lestrade, I wound up in hospital.”

John knew that ' _when I first met Lestrade'_ was Sherlockian code for ' _when I was a drug addict'._

“I was difficult and confused, I fought the nurses and doctors regardless of what drugs they gave me in an attempt to calm me,” Sherlock sighed. “I didn’t want to be there.”

“Obviously,” John whispered in answer but remained quiet.

“Eventually, I calmed and they did their tests, but I was deemed a hazard and tied to the bed resulting in the inability to use the bathroom, and the prolonged use of cocaine made me unable to urinate. They catheterised me but the person who did it… they were a trainee nurse. He was very rough with me. I complained of course, bitterly, until Mycroft intervened and a senior nurse took over.”

“Christ,” John sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“It burned for weeks afterwards. I never, ever want that to happen again,” Sherlock said sadly.

“Sherlock, you need some help with releasing your bladder otherwise you’re going to make yourself worse and we’ll never get home,” John continued. “What can I do to make it easier? I could ask for some sedatives?”

“You do it,” Sherlock mumbled, before lifting tear stained eyes to John’s face. “I trust you not to hurt me.”

John’s breathing caught as he looked at the sadness on Sherlock’s face. “I’m not sure they’ll let me.”

“It’s that, or I discharge myself and leave,” Sherlock insisted. “Or I’ll wait until you need to eat and I’ll escape.”

John rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. Even with a possible broken ankle and fractured ribs, Sherlock could still manage to break out of the hospital; he quickly relented and mumbled, “I’ll ask.”

* * *

John scuffed his too-big shoes across the floor until he reached Claire and Dr Galloway, who were quickly arranging everything they would need for the start of the treatment of the accident victims who were on their way. John cleared his throat, watching as both people turned to look at him.

“Sherlock’s going to need a catheter as soon as possible. He’s had some bad experiences in hospitals before and has asked that I do it; he’s not my patient so I understand it’s unorthodox but I think it would be easier and quicker not to fight him,” John said, scratching the back of his neck anxiously.

“With all respect, Sir,” Dr Galloway started, “I don’t even know that you are a doctor. I couldn’t possibly allow you to provide medical treatment without some identification.”

“He’s a doctor, a bloody good one too,” Claire jumped in. “I worked with him in Afghanistan so I can confirm that he’s fully qualified and we do need the help. We can’t spare anybody to do it since the patients will be here any moment and it’s the Sister in charge’s decision anyway.”

Dr Galloway looked John up and down before giving a curt nod and turning around, leaving John and Claire to scramble for the packages that John would need.

“He seems nice,” John quipped, rolling his eyes.

“He’s 36 hours into a 48 hour shift,” Claire smiled softly. “He’s running on fumes, adrenalin and the slop they call coffee here.”

Claire handed John his equipment before grabbing his hand tightly. “It’s really nice to see you, John, you look good.”

“You do too,” John smiled and kissed Claire’s cheek. “Now go on. You have lives to save whilst I drain my best friend of pee.”

Claire laughed loudly and threw back her head as she turned towards the readied bays. “The porter will be here any minute. Wait until you’re in your private room.”

John set off to Sherlock’s cubicle only to find his best friend in an argument with a large, Scottish porter who stared down angrily at him.

“I know about your gambling habits because of your thumbnail! Traces of foil from scratch cards.”

The porter glared at Sherlock before turning to John dressed in scrubs and carrying the packages of sealed medical equipment. “Well Doc, are ya coming too? Apparently we had to wait for ya.”

John huffed a laugh and nodded, walking beside the trolley as the Scottish man pushed down winding corridors whilst Sherlock’s eyes noticed everything around them. John attempted to keep notes of the route but soon gave up when they arrived at a secured pastel painted ward with a gaggle of nurses filling in paperwork.

“Mr Olmes for ya,” the Scottish man said to the senior nurse who pointed to the private room which was to be Sherlock’s temporary base. The porter pushed him through and readied the bed in the correct place before turning to leave, giving a final glare to Sherlock before mumbling angrily to himself on the way out.

“You need to stop doing that,” John chuckled.

“It’s okay then? You’ll do it?” Sherlock asked nervously, his heart becoming lighter when John replied, “Yes.”

“Good, okay, good,” Sherlock mumbled as he straightened out his scratchy bedding which was so very different to his own from home. “I didn’t want anybody else doing it.”

“I know, in case they hurt you,” John nodded, turning to wash his hands out of habit.

“Nobody has ever touched me there… except the last person who did it… and my parents I suppose, but I’ve never been touched sexually,” Sherlock continued, looking up in time to see John’s mouth fall open.

“Sherlock, this isn’t sexual. This is purely medicinal. I could get struck off for touching you sexually,” John gasped.

Sherlock shrugged. “You’re not my doctor.”

“I’m not doing it if you think that it’s sexual, Sherlock,” John warned.

“No. I just…” Sherlock trailed off before starting again. “What I meant to say was that I’ve never been touched sexually. I’ve never had anybody touch my genitals that I actually _wanted_ to. I never had a choice last time so this time I finally have the ability to say no and choose for you to do it.”

John swallowed slightly and tilted his head. “I understand.”

“It’s not a sexual thing so much as a comfort thing,” Sherlock continued, obviously on a roll with his words. “I know you won’t hurt me intentionally. I realise that you… care about me in some fashion.”

John gulped harder and bit his lip. “You know I do.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock smiled softly.

* * *

John opened the various equipment he would need for the procedure and placed them at Sherlock’s side, warning the detective not to touch them with a glare. Sherlock watched as John pulled back the covers and lifted Sherlock’s gown up, noticing the black and purple bruise which had formed in his groin from the IV in the helicopter. The doctor gave a quick sweep of the area with his eyes, looking for any injuries they may have missed but found none, and his eyes were drawn immediately to Sherlock’s crotch. The man’s flaccid cock lay on the bush of black hair and looked far more healthy and significantly larger than when John had seen it previously in the cold. John flicked his eyes up to Sherlock and noticed the pink blush across his cheeks, and his hands clenched in the bedding.

John was surprised to see that Sherlock was circumcised; John himself was uncut but he had heard it was popular among parents around the time of Sherlock’s birth. Lifting his hands, he grabbed the antibacterial liquid and swabs from the side and opened one, warning his friend that it was going to be cold and possibly a little stinging. Sherlock nodded and kept his eyes closed as John swept the wipe from Sherlock’s tip to base, ensuring every inch of his cock was clean. The wipe came away slightly murky from the filthy water Sherlock had been in contact with, forcing John to open a second set of swabs and repeat his ministrations whilst Sherlock cringed and desperately fought to not get hard at the strange sensation.

Sherlock breathed through his nose heavily and finally opened his eyes in time to see John washing his hands and pulling on the sterilised gloves; the sight of the plastic tubing which was to be forced into his penis was enough to quell any lingering arousal and caused Sherlock’s stomach to flip nervously. John, however, realised Sherlock’s anxiety and gave his softest smile. “Relax, it’ll be fine.”

Holding Sherlock’s penis securely, John lifted the tube to the slit and looked at his friend. “Take a deep breath.”

There wasn’t much pain; more of a discomfort than anything as John slowly inserted the tube into Sherlock’s urethra, pushing further and further down into Sherlock’s body whilst the detective desperately tried not to clamp down his muscles in a futile attempt to stop the foreign invader. John soothed him with soft shushes as his fingers tracked the progress of the tubing, noticing that Sherlock was starting to firm up. Sherlock obviously noticed at roughly the same time and opened his eyes wide, his mouth opening to protest that he didn’t mean it sexually but John smiled and nodded.

“It’s okay. It happens sometimes,” John chuckled.

Sherlock relaxed; knowing that John didn’t think he was a deviant definitely helped with his anxiety as he felt John reach the area needed. The doctor moved quickly, lifting the kidney dish beneath Sherlock’s tip and the end of the tube, he tilted it until Sherlock heard the first trickles of urine filling the dish. A low level feeling of relief began to emanate from his lower stomach as more and more liquid released itself from Sherlock’s bladder to fill the dish.

“So…” John began, aware of how weird the situation was to be holding his best friend's penis and letting him piss into a container. “You’re circumcised?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, adding, “well deduced, doctor.”

“Git,” John laughed, breaking the awkwardness. “Religious, medical or cleanliness?”

Sherlock gave a half shrug and sighed as the pressure in his stomach relented. “Father insisted both me and Mycroft were done as babies… Is it really cleaner?”

“That’s the theory,” John added as he watched the urine still trickling.

“Hmmm, perhaps an experiment…” Sherlock trailed off, lost in his own world as he thought of how he could persuade Molly to hand over a jar of foreskins.

“Right, I think you’re done,” John commented as he held the kidney dish tightly. “Feel better?”

“Much,” Sherlock nodded, “thank you.”

“Not a problem,” John smiled warmly before removing the catheter and placing it back in the packaging to dispose of. He stood shakily and lifted the full pan and the used equipment; taking them to the nurse’s station, he asked where he should dispose of his waste and was led to the sluice and bins. John thanked them kindly before returning to Sherlock who had covered himself up with the blankets and was now laying on his side looking exhausted.

“You get some sleep,” John whispered. “I’m going to go for something to eat.”

“'Kay,” Sherlock yawned, attempting to move his ankle and yelping.

“I’ll ask for some medication,” John replied, stroking his fingers through Sherlock’s hair absently. “Get some rest.”

“T-Thank you, John,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes wide at the intimate gesture which had passed between them.

“No problem,” John smiled, stopping off at the nurse’s station to request something for the sleeping man, before turning and walking towards the hospital café.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Showers and lisping Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a job interview so I am posting early. Wish me luck!

The café food was warm and tasty; John washed it down with a pot of tea and thought back to how the day had progressed. He had become used to situations going awry once Sherlock became involved; being kidnapped by Chinese gangsters, almost blown up in a pool and almost killed by Americans was almost commonplace in his life to the point that he almost wasn’t surprised when such occurrences happened. This, however, this was a totally different kettle of fish.

He had always considered himself to be a capable doctor and soldier; a proficient marksman with a steady aim who could be called upon to watch Sherlock’s back in every eventuality but today had scared him witless. His inability to help Sherlock whilst out in the middle of nowhere was profoundly unsettling and made John’s stomach feel queasy at how easy it could have been to lose Sherlock. The regret that he wasn’t there to help Sherlock when he fell into the water felt heavy in his abdomen, which was quickly replaced with guilt that he hadn’t argued harder for Sherlock to strip off and redress in warm, dry clothes sooner. Letting it continue on had caused it to be much worse than he had anticipated.

There were also the underlying and terrible feelings of intimacy and arousal he had felt whilst curled up beside his best friend. Sherlock hadn’t consented to John’s stiffy being pushed up against him and it made John feel like a bit of a sex criminal, pushing himself against unwilling participants and getting his rocks off. He chewed another slice of toast and allowed his mind to ponder the outcome of their lifesaving cuddles.

Sherlock had admitted that he was a virgin, completely untouched in every way except for medicinal treatment, which made John feel even worse for violating Sherlock’s personal space, even if it was to keep him alive. The doctor believed that Sherlock understood the necessity for him to press up against him, he needed skin to skin contact to keep warm but perhaps Sherlock hadn’t wanted John to be so close? To feel his hardness pressed against his own skin when Sherlock’s cock had remained tiny and shrivelled in the frigid temperatures around them.

John sighed and scratched his head idly, knowing that he would need to have a very awkward conversation with his best friend.

He noticed he had been away for well over an hour, more than enough time for Sherlock to get some much needed rest. John put his tray back on the counter and thanked the various ladies in their tabards and hairnets before setting off back to the ward; he buzzed himself in using the intercom and heard the familiar voice calling out, angrily followed by a soft cry over the speaker. John rubbed his face and squared his shoulders, walking through the doors as he was eventually buzzed into the secure ward.

“John!” Sherlock’s voice, sounding dizzy and confused. “Where ish my Jawn?!”

“Sherlock, calm down,” John soothed as he walked through the door with his hands outstretched in a symbol of peace.

Sherlock was sitting up in his bed; his hair and eyes were wild as he gestured towards a burly looking male nurse who obviously didn’t allow any shit on his ward. The nurse gave a look towards John and held up a syringe full of a clear substance. “He’s about to have his cast put on. He became quite distressed when he awoke and you weren’t here. We already gave him something that should have helped with both anxiety and pain but he’s still in a lot of pain and he became agitated once more. Hence I’m going to give him a stronger painkiller.”

John looked at Sherlock who was looking softly towards the needle held in the nurse’s hand before turning his attention back to John.

“He’s a recovering addict. What have you given him and what is that?” John asked.

“We’ve gave him diazepam for the distress and pain and this is morphine,” the nurse gulped.

“Did nobody check his medical records? Christ!” John spat before calming himself. “Sorry, I’m sorry. He can’t take that but something none opiate based would be fine.”

The nurse nodded and left the room, closing the door and leaving the two friends alone once more.

“Fucking idiotshh,” Sherlock slurred, “I was ashleep and they wanted to come in and jab me!”

John gave a gentle smile and put his hand over Sherlock’s own for comfort as Sherlock sagged against the pillows. John pulled up his chair and crossed his legs.

“You’re feeling guilty about sh-shh-something,” Sherlock frowned at John as he attempted to get past his lisp. “What did you do?”

“When we were in the woods…” John trailed off and inhaled shakily. “When we needed to get together for warmth until the helicopter came.”

“Yesh?” Sherlock coaxed, his fingers steepled by his chin.

“Well… I wasn’t wearing much,” John continued, letting his hand rub against the back of his neck nervously, “and I’m aware that our closeness might have caused something of a disturbance between us.”

The door opened and the nurse returned with a stranger just as Sherlock exclaimed, “Oh, you mean your erection that was pressed close to me?”

The nurse looked between both men and hid a smirk as he walked around the bed and began readying Sherlock for the cast on his ankle, whilst introducing both men to the Orthopaedic Technician. Both men nodded their hellos and listened as the woman explained that as a private patient, he wasn’t being moved to the plaster room and instead they would complete the cast in his private room. A sure sign of Mycroft’s meddling.

Sherlock continued rambling about the average angles of erections for men over the age of 35 before John pinched his thigh hard, making Sherlock yelp and silence himself as the nurse and Orthopaedic Technician continued working. The detective pouted and sulked whilst John became redder and redder in the face, embarrassment almost at critical levels.

“You were gone a while,” Sherlock stated calmly.

“I was eating, and then I got a bit lost trying to find the ward,” John smiled.

“You don’t need to feel guilty y’know,” Sherlock yawned. “It doesn’t change anything between us.”

“Good, that’s good,” John nodded and looked at the Orthopaedic Technician. “Am I alright to stay during his cast?”

“Yeah, no problem,” the technician smiled, beginning the process of touching Sherlock’s ankle and watching the detective flinch in pain as he was positioned correctly, before strips of fabric were carefully wrapped around his ankle, again and again whilst John made ridiculous conversation in an attempt to distract Sherlock from the pain.

“I’ll need to ring Mycroft later,” John grinned. “He’ll have to send one of his minions to get our stuff from the B&B and pick up the rental car.”

“And bring us clothes,” Sherlock insisted. “Although I don’t think my trousers will fit over the cast.”

“I’ll get him to bring some jogging bottoms or something, they’ll stretch until we get home and they’ll be more comfortable on the journey back to London,” John insisted, as the nurse finally finished up and cleared away the mess.

“Since you’ve been in contaminated water we’ll need to give you a shower, Mr Holmes,” the nurse said. “Once your cast is set would you prefer a male nurse?”

“I'd prefer my doctor,” Sherlock grumbled, before looking at John who sighed and pinched his nose once more.

“I’ll do it. He’s not comfortable with anyone else touching him. I’m a doctor so I’ve done plenty of supported showers in my time,” John explained with a soft smile, before looking up at Sherlock whose cheeks seemed to be pinker than normal.

“It’s fine. I’ll bring some towels.” The nurse smiled before giving a teasing wink as he left the cubicle, and he was quickly followed by the Orthopaedic Technician after leaving leaflets with only a brief explanation on how to care for the cast, taking into account John’s knowledge and expertise.

“People will definitely talk now, Sherlock,” John chuckled.

* * *

The mobile rang for two rings before Mycroft’s voice came through the speaker, “Dr Watson, how is my brother?”

“Fine, broken ankle which is in a cast and a fractured rib from the fall but he’s fine. No lasting damage except to his silly coat,” John smiled.

“Glad to hear it,” Mycroft replied, before lingering silence permeated the air between them. “I am rather busy, John.”

“Yeah right, erm… Could you get us some clothes sent out? Not bothered about my own but Sherlock will need something loose fitting for his pot and we’ll need our belongings picked up from the B&B. I can text you the details,” John rambled.

“Your belongings are already on their way back to Baker Street, your rental car has been returned and fresh clothing should be with you shortly,” Mycroft said, a smile evident in his voice at having shocked John by reading his mind.

“Thanks Mycroft. Honestly, thank you,” John continued before swallowing the lump in his throat. “Can we get a lift home?”

“My personal driver will be with you in an hour or so,” Mycroft replied. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Yeah… thanks. See you soon,” John nodded before hanging up the phone and returning to Sherlock’s bedside. “Mycroft is going to send a car and clothes, but we need to shower you first.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn’t speak as he was helped shakily to his feet; although the sedative the nurses had given him had mostly worn off, the lethargy and shock of the day had obviously tired the detective out and he required a few moments to hang off John like a giant sloth whilst he got his breath back. John chuckled and kept hold of him until he felt able to move and they could potter a few more steps and stop once more.

“I might as well put you in a wheel chair,” John rolled his eyes. “Invalid.”

“Git,” Sherlock laughed into the crook of John’s neck, sending a jolt of hot air down the front of John’s scrubs and causing a tightening in his trousers.

“Arse,” John replied before finally managing to get Sherlock to sit on the lid of the toilet. The room was surprisingly spacious with a clean shower, sink and mirror; the only give away that it was a hospital bathroom was the emergency cord which went straight to the nurse’s station.

“Right,” John grumbled and held two tiny bars of hospital soap. “We have this stuff, none of your ridiculously overpriced nonsense.”

Sherlock playfully snarled at John before rolling his eyes. “John, I think I might need to urinate again.”

John helped Sherlock to balance on his good foot whilst he lifted the lid and lifted Sherlock’s robe to his waist, carefully bunching it to cover Sherlock’s privates. He lowered him back to the toilet and stood awkwardly against the sink. “Do you want me to give you privacy?”

“I rather think we’ve gone beyond that, John. What with you shoving tubes up my penis,” Sherlock laughed as his urine splashed into the bowl beneath. John turned away from the sound and began running the shower, ensuring it was warm but not too hot for Sherlock’s skin whilst also picking up the various plastic wraps and waterproof tape which were provided for him. He sniffed at the soap package, it was unscented but had a slightly medicinal aroma which Sherlock would no doubt hate on his body.

“I’m finished,” Sherlock grumbled, attempting to pull himself up using the rails on the wall. John moved to his side to help him up and flushed the chain before sitting Sherlock back down on the lid, as he began wrapping the plastic around the cast to protect it from the shower. John untied Sherlock’s gown and watched it slip down his shoulders to bunch at his groin, whilst John once more grabbed Sherlock under the arm and lifted him, following the trail of the gown as it fluttered to the wet floor.

“It’s alright, we’ll get a clean one,” John soothed as he held Sherlock tightly, half staggering with the tall man until the detective was in the shower and beneath the flowing water.

“Oh, this is nice,” Sherlock groaned, unaware at how sexual his voice had turned as he moaned and groaned and scrubbed his face and hair with his large hands. John could only ensure that Sherlock was upright, his hands holding up his best friend’s armpits as Sherlock washed himself. John nodded to the bars of soap which had been left on soap dish attached to the shower head; Sherlock grabbed it and attempted to lather the soap which was obviously not for luxury.

“How are you supposed to wash with this?” Sherlock grumbled as he attempted to get froth in his hands before scrubbing his arms and torso. “Bloody ridiculous.”

“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t know you’d fall in a bloody pond or I'd have brought some in my jacket pocket,” John grumbled playfully as Sherlock began to attempt to clean his legs, wincing at the ache in his ribs with every movement.

“I… I can’t do it,” Sherlock whined, his pain evident in the gasps for breath.

“Alright… Erm… do the bits you can reach and I’ll do the rest,” John insisted.

Sherlock could only nod and attempt to clean himself to the best of his ability, whilst desperately trying not to maintain an erection. His mind wandered to the most foul things he could think of; the time he left thumbs in the bathtub whilst he went away on a case for a week, gory crime scenes and Anderson's face but nothing worked, his cock was slowly growing and plumping in size regardless of his thoughts and desperate attempts to control his transport.

“Er, John… I rather think I should mention…” Sherlock trailed off and raised his eyes to the ceiling of the room. _Could this day be any more embarrassing?_

“It’s alright. I understand,” John laughed. “Just a bodily function like all others. Don’t worry.”

“It’s not like I can do anything about it,” Sherlock shrugged. “I’m unable to achieve orgasm whilst standing upright.”

“What? Why?” John huffed, his brows furrowed.

“I’m not sure. Never have been able to. I have to be flat and I require both penile and prostate stimulation to climax.” Sherlock attempted to shrug again but slipped, thankful when John steadied him rather than let him fall to the floor.

“Well… That’s not unusual, but the standing up bit is,” John added.

“I think I’m overwhelmed by sensation, afraid of slipping in the bath, the water changing temperature, the people outside,” Sherlock continued. “At least in my room I can shut it all away and just relax on my bed.”

“Yeah I suppose,” John replied, hoping to a deity he didn’t believe in that Sherlock didn’t notice his own hard on pressed against his scrubs.

“What about you?” Sherlock asked, turning his head and running his observant eyes over John’s body. “Any struggles in that area?”

“None at all,” John grumbled before moving Sherlock to sit on the toilet seat, much to the detective’s displeasure, who made an unhappy sound at the back of his throat. “I need to do your legs so sit down.”

“Yes, Captain,” Sherlock mock saluted and sat with his arms folded, aware of how ridiculous he looked naked and wet with his arms crossed, a pout and an erection.

John continued the rest of the strange bath in silence as he knelt between Sherlock’s legs, careful to avoid his erection which stood jutting and hard from the black curls between his thighs. Sherlock had seemingly gone into his mind palace which allowed John to have a good old look at his best friend’s cock ( _as a friend, not as a doctor of course. That would be weird)._

Sherlock was cut and the scar was low, giving his penis a two coloured effect. The bottom of the shaft was pale and Sherlock’s natural colour, whereas the upper part was a lovely, soft pink colour becoming slightly redder towards the tip due to the blood flowing to the slit. John examined further, moving to Sherlock’s testicles which hung low and free between his thighs, dusted with dark auburn fuzz; they looked delicate and delicious.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice startled John so much that he almost fell and hit his head on the sink basin. He quickly pulled his eyes to Sherlock’s face and noticed that the detective was flushed and panting, his eyes hooded and aroused as he stared down at the red face of his best friend. “I ache.”

“Where? Your ankle?” John asked, moving to cup the offending part only realising that it was still wrapped in plastic and plaster.

“No… my… cock,” Sherlock whispered. “Please.”

“No, Sherlock,” John warned, looking up at his friend. “I’m sorry, but no.”

Sherlock started to protest but quickly clamped his mouth closed and looked affronted but allowed John to continue cleaning him up. The pair sat in silence as John scrubbed his lower calve and knees, moving down to scrub the other available foot before grasping the towels and holding them up whilst helping Sherlock to his feet; it took some manoeuvring and an awkward amount of touching but soon, the detective was wrapped in his towel and moving towards the empty bed where the nurse had placed the fresh clothes which had arrived from Mycroft’s minions. John helped Sherlock to sit and patted him dry before rummaging through the piles of clothing and taking out the black lycra underwear for Sherlock. Pulling them up Sherlock’s long legs, he asked Sherlock to lift his hips to pull them over the thin, protruding bones of his best friend, cladding the still hard and leaking erection in fabric, much to Sherlock’s dismay. John steadfastly ignored Sherlock’s huffs of anger as he pulled on the grey t-shirt, black hoodie and grey jogging bottoms over the plaster cast on the detective's foot. He quickly managed to wrap his good foot in a sock and trainer before nodding that Sherlock was acceptably dressed for the long journey home.

He himself was desperate to get out of his scrubs; taking the clothes provided he walked into the bathroom and sighed deeply as soon as the door was closed and locked behind him. Sherlock would be irritable if he suffered from blue balls but it wasn’t a primary concern of John’s; the doctor wanted to get Sherlock home and into bed to allow the man to sleep off the shock of the day. Pulling his scrubs off, he dressed quickly in jeans, a button down shirt and a warm wool jumper along with brogues. Leaving the bathroom, he placed the scrubs onto the bed, already folded despite them going down to be washed but he didn’t want to seem like a slob as opposed to Sherlock who had let the towels fall to the floor haphazardly.

“We need to pick up my pills from the pharmacy,” Sherlock said, breaking the silence which had built to awkward levels.

“Yeah… okay yeah, let’s get you a wheelchair as you’re going to be knackered before we get to the car,” John ordered, before helping Sherlock to his feet and grabbing their soiled belongings which had been put in a large plastic bag marked ‘contaminated’ which John hoped was a joke.

The nurses were happy to arrange a wheelchair and gave John directions to the pharmacy and the exit before handing Sherlock his discharge papers; John pushed him through the secure doors and waved at the nurses who quickly returned to their jobs as the door closed behind them.

John’s mobile beeped with an incoming text causing the man to slow down and pull out his phone.

**Driver outside, Bridge entrance** **– MH**

The pair set off to the chemist and picked up the large quantity of drugs, before setting off on the correct coloured corridors indicating the route to get to their destination; stopping outside the door they immediately saw the large black limo, standing out like a sore thumb beside the smokers and taxis.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is another part to this chapter but I've broken it into two to allow more time to finish the story. 
> 
> Also, I GOT THE JOB! Thank you to everyone who sent me good luck vibes!

The return to London was uneventful, except from an incident where Derek the driver had to pull off into the hard shoulder to allow Sherlock to vomit; the detective had taken his painkillers on an empty stomach and immediately regretted it when his stomach began to churn with each bump of the car. John held back his hair and patted his back whilst making soothing noises as Sherlock heaved and coughed, immediately grumbling at how humiliating a scene it was.

A few stops in service stations for toilet breaks, coffee and leg stretching broke up the monotonous hours of driving as both men attempted to sleep. Sherlock had retreated into his mind palace, apparently to do some ‘admin’ regarding Mr Wilson’s case whilst John dozed, occasionally waking himself up by bumping his nose into the window as the car jolted on the road.

Eventually, the two men pulled up outside Baker Street; Sherlock waited until both Derek and John were out of the car to help him out of the backseat. His chest ached from being upright for so long and his ankle throbbed with pain due to the lack of painkillers in his system, resulting in a very irate and snappy Sherlock who complained ( _more than usual)_ about John’s stupidity. He was only hushed when the whirlwind which was Mrs Hudson rushed out of the door and held out her arm for him to take, seemingly unaware of Sherlock’s ankle injury and his inability to walk alone.

John and Derek managed to half carry, half push Sherlock up the stairs until they reached the flat and deposited the detective on the sofa. John straightened and immediately went to put the kettle on, saying thank you to Derek who gave a gracious nod and promptly left the building for his own home. Mrs Hudson fussed like a mother hen, clucking around Sherlock and propping the union jack pillow on a chair and placing it under his cast to elevate his leg as to prevent any swelling whilst clicking her tongue at his foolishness. Sherlock put her on mute and relaxed into the delves of the sofa which had formed over years of his pert arse sitting on it.

“Tea and toast,” John smiled, placing a cup and plate beside Sherlock and pushing the coffee table closer. “The food of champions.”

“Not hungry,” Sherlock grumbled, his eyes closed and his body still.

“You haven’t eaten since this morning and it’s now… late.” John looked at his watch and noticed it was past midnight.

“I’ve gone longer,” Sherlock insisted petulantly.

“Don’t care. Eat,” John ordered, frowning and glaring at Sherlock until the detective sighed and pulled himself up with a wince, before cramming an entire half a slice into his mouth in the most ungraceful way possible. John knew that Sherlock was only trying to get a rise out of him so ignored the bad manners and sipped at his own tea.

“I’ll give you your medication before bed, but you need to sleep,” John said softly.

“No,” Sherlock replied.

John sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Well, I’ll be going to bed soon which means I’ll leave you on this sofa.”

“Fine,” Sherlock shrugged before wincing.

John intended on calling his friend’s bluff and stood up, stretching before going to the toilet and brushing his teeth. He looked over at Sherlock who was still sipping his tea, putting two tablets in Sherlock’s large hand before asking, “Are you sure? Final chance.”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock insisted before waving dismissively. “Goodnight, John.”

“Night, Sherlock,” John smiled, walking up the stairs to his bedroom but leaving the door open slightly.

* * *

 

John must have dozed off as he lay on his bed; the exhaustion of the day rushed over him and left him drained as he lay on top of the bedding. He was awoken by a soft hiss and then a cry of, “Jooohn?”

The doctor was immediately out of bed and rushing down the stairs, where he found Sherlock in the same position as when he'd left; the detective looked wretched, with a pained look on his face as he turned to look at John. “I rather think I’m in pain.”

“I told you,” John sighed, before moving to Sherlock’s side and helping him stand up gently so not to inflict too much pain on the bruised and fractured ribs, now noticing the myriad of colourful bruises which started at Sherlock’s wrist and continued up his arms, and the scratches on his friend’s palms from attempting to pull himself onto the solid ground and being stuck with sharp branches and sticks.

“Yes, yes, you’re a genius,” Sherlock snarked before groaning deep and low as he gripped John’s shoulder.

“Let’s get you into bed,” John ordered, walking Sherlock slowly to the bathroom first to allow Sherlock to pee before helping him into his bed, pulling the covers over the pale form who sighed at the comfort.

John checked the time and noticed that Sherlock could have more pain pills; walking to the kitchen he filled a glass with cold water and brought in two painkillers before handing them to Sherlock with a soft smile. “I’m sorry. I was going to wait a few minutes as I was sure you would ask for help but I must have fallen asleep.”

Sherlock huffed. “You should never underestimate my stubbornness, John.”

“Very true,” John nodded before putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulders. “Anything else?”

“An orgasm?” Sherlock teased hopefully, watching as John’s face grew tense once more. “No, thank you, John,” Sherlock said genuinely before snuggling further under the blankets.

* * *

 

The next morning, John awoke to the sound of crashing from below; sighing and rubbing his face, he climbed from the comfort of his bed and walked down the stairs to see what trouble Sherlock had got himself into. The detective was leaning his weight against the fridge with a look of pain on his face as the kettle leaked water onto the floor.

“What are you doing?” John asked, walking to the kitchen and checking the water wasn’t boiling. It would seem that the detective hadn’t got around to making his morning tea and had instead accidently dropped the kettle onto the floor.

“I filled up the kettle but it was heavy and hurt my chest,” Sherlock grumbled. “I hate being weak!”

“Just relax,” John soothed, his hands encircling Sherlock’s waist as he helped the man to sit on the kitchen chair, whilst John himself started to clean up the mess and started tea.

“What are your plans for today?” Sherlock asked as he fiddled with a box of matches on the table, his long fingers flicking them around and around.

“Not much,” John admitted, pouring the hot water and stirring the cups. “Why?”

“I hoped you might help me,” Sherlock asked gently, looking up at John under his eyelashes.

“Oh?” John continued,

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed, nodding to John when he placed the mug in front of him and sat down opposite. “I erm… wondered if you could help me with my problem?”

“Problem?” John asked, his heart thundering in his chest as he caught up with what Sherlock was asking.

“I haven’t been able to pleasure myself. I tried last night but it hurt too much and now I feel antsy and uncomfortable,” Sherlock admitted.

“Sherlock,” John warned, taking a sip of his boiling brew purely as a distraction. “We’re not having this conversation”

The detective frowned, his eyes scanning John’s face for reasons behind the failure to help in such a simple procedure.

“Do you know what it’s like to have a brain like mine?” Sherlock seethed, staring at John angrily. “Constantly _full, full, full_ with no respite from the deductions. I can tell that you’re using a new mouthwash and you masturbated last night. I know that Mrs Hudson is making an apple pie and is wearing her prettiest dress as Mr Patel will be returning from the cash and carry and she wants to catch his eye,” Sherlock spoke in rapid fashion, his hands moving quickly to gesture in various directions as he kept eye contact with his best friend. “And the only way to shut it off is to have an orgasm. Something I can’t do for myself and something that _you,_ my supposed best friend, refuse to help me with!”

John watched as Sherlock slumped back in his seat and pulled on his curls roughly. John looked down at his drink and then back at Sherlock. “Are you finished?”

Sherlock sneered, aware that he couldn’t flounce from his seat over to the sofa without hobbling and looking pathetic and needy.

“No. I’m not doing that. I’m not gay,” John explained softly and slowly.

“Oh hell!” Sherlock exploded and threw his hands into the air. “What does that matter? I’m not asking you to take me up against the wall! I’m asking for a helping hand to do something I’m unable to do.”

“Sherlock,” John warned.

“And you may not be gay, John Watson,” Sherlock continued, his brain carried away in indignation and John’s refusal to help, “but we both know you’re not entirely straight.”

John’s eyes narrowed and his gaze became steely as he stared over at his friend. “Careful, Sherlock.”

“Why? Scared I may say something you’ve tried to hide from the world?” Sherlock spat. “You fell in love with a man in a warzone. You had sex with a man and he broke your heart so now you’re unwilling to open yourself up in case it happens again.”

John continued to glare as Sherlock carried on ranting. “But what do I know? I’m an innocent virgin, untouched and unclaimed so my opinion on sex isn’t worth anything. I can’t even have a pitiful wank full of the usual self loathing without relying on my best friend.”

John stood quickly and slammed his fist on the table before turning on his heels and marching to his bedroom; getting dressed he immediately left the flat, refusing to look at the world’s only consulting detective sitting dejected at the kitchen table with flame coloured cheeks and teary eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

John walked for hours without a real destination in mind; his thoughts were whirling in his head as he wondered how Sherlock had known about his and James’ relationship in Afghanistan, but it hadn’t exactly been a secret in his social circles. His bisexuality had never held him back for promotion or during sexual encounters, and had largely been forgotten since moving back to London after the injury. He still found men attractive, but his experience with James had tarnished the thought of being with a man so soon after the heartbreak.

He found a small café off the main road and took a seat in one of the booths; the place was clean and tidy with a lingering smell of crispy bacon and strong coffee which made John’s stomach rumble, as if to remind his brain he hadn’t eaten yet. John ordered a bacon sandwich and cup of tea before taking one of the napkins and slowly ripping it apart piece by piece. Sherlock was the only person who could ever make John lose his cool this way, walking out of his flat in jeans which were still wet at the waistband and odd socks. The man was arrogant and annoying, totally self-centred and could be a complete tosser at times… but he was also sweet and innocently naïve about human emotions. He was loyal, and desperately tried hard to keep John happy when he realised John needed more than the occasional case or when he had forgotten about the ears in the biscuit tin.

Sighing and scratching his head idly, he looked over at the people in the café; one or two looked like truckers ( _Sherlock would have probably known which company they worked for by their kneecaps or shoelaces)_ whilst a few students sat in the corner, cramming for last minute exams. John was startled out of his reverie by the waitress bringing over his food and tea along with her number secretly tucked under the metal teapot. John gave her a soft smile and nodded, pocketing the number and beginning to strip apart his sandwich as his mobile chirped with a text.

**Forgive me** **– SH**

John smiled and replied.

**Why should I?** **– JW**

**Because I was an idiot and I shouldn** **’t have taken my frustration out on you** **– SH**

**Also, you shouldn** **’t eat too much bacon. It** **’s bad for you** **– SH**

**How do you know I** **’m eating bacon? And no, you shouldn** **’t have** **– JW**

**You left without eating and it** **’s now almost lunchtime. You will have been hungry and automatically followed the alluring scent of fried pig** **– SH**

**Do you want one bringing home?** **– JW**

**No thank you. John, where would I find the number for an escort agency which is both clean and discreet?** **– SH**

**How would I know? Also, why?** **– JW**

**None of your concern, I have decided to avoid discussing the topic. I shall contact Lestrade and ask him** **– SH**

**Sherlock, you can** **’t ask a police officer where the best place to get a hooker is! And you shouldn** **’t use one for your first time. It should be special and with somebody you care about** **– JW**

**Why?** **– SH**

**Why what? The first one, because it** **’s illegal. The second one because it** **’s a special moment** **– JW**

**So you won** **’t help me orgasm, you won** **’t let me arrange for someone else to help** **… you** **’re a control freak John. You want me to be unhappy** **– SH**

**Perhaps I should contact Mycroft. I bet he has numbers for discreet ones** **– SH**

**For God's sake** **– JW**

**I tried again on my own and I** **’m fairly certain I felt something pop. That** **’s not a good sign is it? - SH**

**I** **’m coming home. Don** **’t call anyone or touch anything. Especially not yourself - JW**

John exhaled shakily and scrubbed his face before drinking down the last dregs of his tea; leaving money on the table, he left the café and began the walk back to Baker Street, his mind resolved of guilt and issues regarding his friendship with Sherlock.

* * *

 

Sherlock had pottered around the room at a snail’s pace after John had left before eventually throwing himself back onto his bed to sulk; he had only wanted John to help him climax. The man had seen him naked and already touched his penis! He had saved his life and killed a man for him but he wouldn’t help him come? It seemed ridiculous to Sherlock who brooded on his mattress. He thought about John touching him in the hospital, helping him free his bladder and showering him. He had enjoyed the touch of his best friend against his skin, causing an erection which had strained and ached without relief. He began to realise that he was once more hard, pushing and tenting his trousers; lying on his back, he reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out his dildo and lube before slicking up his hand and the toy. Reaching below, he worked to push a finger inside himself, only to wince at the ache in his chest when he moved. Grumbling to himself, he grabbed a pillow and put it under his hips in an attempt to lift and better position his arse. It worked long enough for him to stretch himself with two fingers, skimming over his prostate and jerking hard at the sharp pain in his ribs with a yelp.

The detective reached for the dildo and placed the slicked up head at his entrance; pushing in slowly, he gasped and hissed at the pain before falling back onto the bed in a huff of exasperation.

Pulling his trousers back up, Sherlock threw the dildo to the floor in a fit of anger and hobbled to the living room, lying down on the sofa and sulking before deciding to text and apologise to John.

* * *

 

John walked through the door and closed it behind him; hanging his coat on the hook, he walked to Sherlock’s head and looked down at the detective lying in his usual thinking pose. John had an urge to stroke his fingers through the soft curls but stopped himself as Sherlock’s eyes popped open and met his own,

“You’re back then?” he asked pointlessly.

“It’s good, that deduction,” John smiled before throwing himself into his chair and staring over at his friend. “Are you serious that this is what you want?”

“I just need help until my ribs heal,” Sherlock insisted, his voice deep and silken.

“If we do this, and I do mean _if,_ _”_ John insisted, “it's not romantic. We’re not a couple and I’m not a doctor. I’m just your flatmate helping you out whilst you’re injured.”

Sherlock shrugged and whispered, “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

John narrowed his eyes but remained still. “We don’t kiss, it’s not romantic. It’s just a handjob between friends.”

“Of course,” Sherlock nodded, excitement building.

John cautiously stood and began to walk towards Sherlock’s bedroom before realising he’d probably have to help Sherlock. The detective managed to climb from the sofa but hopped slightly before John managed to grip his arm tightly and steer him gently towards the bedroom.

The older man left Sherlock getting comfortable and naked on the bed as he walked to the kitchen and grabbed the first aid kit from under the counter. Reaching for the latex gloves, he returned to the bedroom and picked up the tube of lubricant which remained on the bed, forgotten by Sherlock in his anger.

John snapped on the latex gloves and smeared lube over his hands; positioning one at Sherlock’s entrance and one around Sherlock’s shaft, he looked up for permission from his friend who nodded and inhaled deeply. John took the moment and pushed his index finger inside the detective, feeling the warmth muted through the latex. He had done hundreds, if not thousands of prostate examinations and this was no different, he told himself as his other hand began to stroke Sherlock slowly, unaware of how to grip a circumcised cock without tugging on foreskin. Sherlock, however, didn’t seem to care as he threw back his head and pushed a fist into his mouth to stifle the soft ‘ _uh_ ’ sounds which left it; small whimpers and keens were muffled behind his large hand as John continued combining his stroking of Sherlock’s insides with his cock, occasionally running a finger over the slick tip to spread the wetness and mix it with the lubricant.

John soon found a perfect rhythm to have Sherlock writhing and moaning; his eyes clamped shut desperately as his hips rocked and bucked against John’s perfect friction. John watched as a dusky pink flush began to spread from Sherlock’s neck down to his chest and nipples. The younger man looked wanton and perfect as John worked him closer and closer to orgasm, ignoring his own dripping cock which soaked his boxers and jeans.

“Please,” Sherlock gasped, his other hand grabbing the pillow behind his head. “John please. I can’t… Oh God.”

John smiled and picked up the pace, his latex gloves giving the best possible friction against the soft and tender skin of Sherlock's cock. The two men panted together, their breathing loud in the room as Sherlock arched his back, gasping at the pain in his ribs but uncaring as he came with a muffled cry which may have been his friend's name. John watched enraptured as ribbons of cum spilled over his fist and Sherlock’s stomach before the final drips dropped into Sherlock’s pubic hair.

“God, oh God,” Sherlock chanted, over and over again until John was certain that he had broken the detective.

“Need to clean you up,” John mumbled and quickly ran for the adjoining bathroom, pulling off the soiled latex gloves and throwing them into the bin as he passed. He stopped in the bathroom and pulled out his cock, tugging on it half a dozen times before coming with a silent exhale as he came into his palm and quickly washed it away with guilt and shame bubbling up in his stomach. Grabbing the tissue, John returned to Sherlock’s bedside and set about cleaning him up; Sherlock was completely blissed out and unresponsive, forcing John to do the entire thing as he cleaned up Sherlock’s torso before flushing the tissues down the toilet.

Returning to the bedroom, John noticed Sherlock had climbed under the covers and was softly dozing with one arm across his belly whilst the other was thrown above his head. Soft snores escaped his lips as he slept restfully for the first time in days. John smiled softly and moved to the bed; grasping a pillow, he pushed it under Sherlock’s ankle and wiggled it until he was happy with the elevation, before softly stroking a hand through Sherlock’s curls, unsure as to why he felt compelled to touch his friend but feeling that he needed the contact. He felt grounded, as though the feel of strands between his fingers were stopping the rug from being pulled from beneath him.

He disconnected his fingers and moved to the door, closing it softly. He didn’t notice the detective staring at him from beneath cracked open lids.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets drunk and makes Sherlock say Penguin.

“I’m going out with Greg; do you need anything before I go?” John asked, stopping at the sofa where Sherlock was laid out watching a nature documentary.

“Who?” Sherlock asked, looking up confused.

“Lestrade. Greg Lestrade” John sighed and smiled “How do you not know his name?”

“I delete it. It’s boring” Sherlock shrugged “No, I don’t need anything”

“Fine. I’ll let Mrs Hudson know I’m going” John smiled and grabbed his wallet and phone “Don’t wait up”

“Didn’t intend to” Sherlock grumbled but was slightly put out. He had been dealing with a troublesome erection all day which seemed to have persisted through the most awful of thoughts ( _mainly his brother)_ and was now causing an ache in his testicles which was rapidly distracting him from the rather interesting documentary.

John walked down the stairs and popped his head into Mrs Hudson’s flat, letting her know that he was going out but he’d have his phone if she needed anything. The landlady nodded in understanding and insisted she would pop up occasionally to refresh Sherlock’s tea and try to force food into the annoying man. John thanked her kindly before setting off into the cool London air at a brisk pace to meet his friend in the local pub.

Greg had already got the first pints in and was waiting at a table when John entered the establishment; it was a traditional pub full of Football fans shouting at the TV and a few elderly regulars drinking from their own tankards at the bar whilst some young lads played pool and darts at the other end of the pub. Greg waved his friend over and slapped him on the back as John sat and took a drink of the refreshing amber liquid,

“Heard about your little adventure” Greg chuckled “Getting bollock naked in a forest with your flatmate?”

“How the hell did you know about that?” John groaned, rubbing his face anxiously.

“Spies John, Spies everywhere” Lestrade insisted with a grin before letting the smile fall from his face “Mycroft told me”

“Ah” John nodded “That’s still happening then?”

“Almost a year now” Lestrade smiled softly before steeling his face into his usual façade of boredom “Anyways, what about you and _him_ _”_ he stressed.

“I don’t know… it’s weird” John admitted with a sigh, “I need to be considerably drunk for this conversation”

Greg motioned to the barman with two fingers in the air “Yes please mate”

The two men began the shots.

* * *

“And then… well… then he refused to get undresssshed didn’t he!” John stressed, his head dropping down to his shoulders as he gestured with his pint, sloshing the liquid inside “So I had to strip off to my tighty whities and wrap him in my clothes but his long legs didn’t fit!... sooooo, his entire cock and balls were just _out!_ _”_ John continued, his eyes hooded with intoxication “All out”

“Whawasitlike?” Greg slurred.

“Pink and small” John giggled “tinnnnny”

“He was frozen John” Greg giggled childishly “Give the man a break”

“It was framed like a fucking painting; they should have put it in a frigging gallery. My shirt ended at his pubes and my trousers started at his thighs so it was just **there!** ” John laughed, shaking his head “Christ, I’m pissed aren’t I? I’m pissed Greg”

Greg tore into the second slice of pizza which they had ordered from the kitchens and groaned at the delicious salty mozzarella dripping across his tongue. John watched the pink muscle flutter against the pizza before dragging his eyes away

“Watch it” Lestrade giggled “Don’t want my boyfriend thinking you’re coming onto me. He’ll send you to Siberia with only shrivelled tiny cocks for company”

“Fuck off” John laughed before suddenly turning serious, “I’m attracted to Sherlock”

“Obviously” Lestrade rolled his eyes.

“I wanking him off” John admitted before covering his mouth with his hands in a futile gesture to take back the words.

“Oh?” Greg’s eyebrows hit his hairline as he looked over at his mate.

“He can’t get off without prostate stimulation apparently and he can’t bend enough with his bad ribs to do it himself so I helped” John replied slowly, looking at his empty glass which had rapidly joined the six others like it.

“And? What’s it like?” Greg leaned forward, attempting to hear John over the sudden clamour of the crowd cheering a goal on TV.

“It feels like I want more but Sherlock doesn’t think like that. I’m just someone to help him out” John sighed sadly, “He told me”

“When?” Greg asked,

“At the waterfall. He told me I wasn’t going to have him ‘like that’ and that he knew about my Bisexuality” John grumbled, realising that once again he had let out a secret. He grabbed a slice of pizza and stuffed it down his throat without care or attention in an attempt to soak up the alcohol and to stop the words escaping.

“You should probably talk to him” Lestrade replied softly, “I don’t think it’ll be as unreciprocated as you think”

Both men were interrupted by a brawl breaking out between two men on a nearby table; the fighter’s wooden chairs they had been sitting on hit the floor with a clack as they jumped up and started to punch and kick at one another. John and Greg immediately jumped from their seats and broke up the fight and soon had both men restrained on the floor; despite the alcohol coursing through their veins they felt alive and aware of their situations as they spoke low and soft to the men lying beneath them.

“If we let go, are you going to behave? I’m a DI with Scotland Yard and I really, really cannot be arsed filling in paperwork on a Friday night” Greg grumbled and watched as the man under him nodded in agreement. The man under John did the same and the two stood up, helping the brawlers to their feet.

“Shake hands and part ways” Greg insisted now almost fully sober, watching the two men hesitate before shaking hands and turning away to go their separate ways.

“Christ. Lager, Pizza and a fight; all I need now is a hand job in a bus shelter and we’ve got the traditional British night out” Lestrade whispered to John, causing the blonde man to double over in hysterical laughter, snorting loudly as he slapped Greg on the back.

“Don’t ask me. Remember Siberia and I’m all out of charity wanks I’m afraid” John giggled before checking the time on his mobile “Shit, I better get back. Sherlock needs more medication before he goes to bed”

“Alright mate. Be careful” Lestrade smiled, walking with John to the doorway of the pub before pulling out his own mobile and dialling Mycroft’s number “Hello beautiful, what? Oh yeh, I’ve just broke up a fight and now my blood’s pumping and it’s making me remember you this morning, all laid out on my bed flushed and panting and I decided I _need_ to see you. Right. Now” Greg flicked his eyes to John who shook his head with a laugh and turned to the main road, waving goodbye to Lestrade who was still talking filthily to his boyfriend and sporting an evident semi in his jeans.

* * *

 

“You’re home early,” Sherlock mumbled from his seat on the sofa. He hadn’t moved since John had left and had even asked Mrs Hudson for a bottle or pan for him to pee into rather than attempt to stand up. A statement which horrified the elderly lady and resulted in Sherlock getting rather a harsh slap across the top of the arm.

“Needed to give you your medication,” John insisted as he kicked off his shoes and pulled off his coat. He shuffled in his socks to the sofa and flopped down, narrowly missing Sherlock’s ankle which had been lifted to allow John a seat. Sherlock frowned and looked over John’s face and body before beginning his usual tirade.

“You went to the pub near the yard as its dead centre between home and Lestrade. You drank seven pints and five shots and then consumed pizza,” Sherlock sneered but continued. “You split up a fight and then walked home.”

John shrugged and hiccupped slightly before nodding, “Yup.”

“You’re in no condition to give me medical advice,” Sherlock replied warily, looking over at his friend who was sitting with a silly grin on his face. “What? What is it?”

“Lestrade,” John giggled childishly, stopping for a moment and then starting again. “I think he was trying to convince Mycroft to have phone sex with him.”

Sherlock froze solid; all systems restarted in his mind at the mental image of Mycroft behind his desk at the Diogenes club with his cock in hand. Sherlock shuddered and shook his head as his hard drive clicked back on. “That is revolting.”

John smiled and huffed out a breath. “I think it’s sweet.”

“It’s not your brother.” Sherlock shuddered before holding a hand up. “That information is going straight into the folder marked ' _burn immediately, under no circumstances open unless you need to vomit out your spleen'._ _”_

John laughed and reached for the bag of pills which had been left on the coffee table in front of Sherlock. As the painkillers weren’t opiates, John hadn’t felt the need to hide them away and wanted Sherlock to feel trusted by his doctor and friend.

“Here.” John nudged Sherlock until the younger man twisted with a grimace and pulled himself half sitting until his legs draped across John’s lap, and his back was supported by the arm of the chair. Opening his hand, Sherlock watched as four painkillers ( _Paracetamol 500mg x2 and Ibuprofen_ 200mg x2) were pushed from their pouches followed by a large anti-biotic which the hospital had insisted he take due to the contaminated water source and the threat of algae in Sherlock’s lungs.

“Take them,” John ordered, watching as Sherlock threw back his head and swallowed all five with a sip of tepid tea left over from Mrs Hudson’s last visit. “How was your evening?”

“Dull,” Sherlock admitted with a dramatic hand gesture. “Although the programme on penwings was interesting.”

John giggled and looked over at Sherlock. “On what?”

“You know I hate repeating myself,” Sherlock grumbled. “Penwings.”

John giggled again, watching Sherlock’s face darken with confusion and frustration. “John? What on earth is so funny?”

“Say Penguin!” John insisted. “Please.”

“Penwing?” Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Why?”

“Pen-guin,” John stressed.

“Pen-wing,” Sherlock huffed. “This is ridiculous, you’re mocking me.”

“No! No Sherlock… Well only a bit, but it’s good natured,” John insisted. “Say after me. Pen-guin.”

John’s eyes were fixed on Sherlock’s mouth as the detective began to speak; his perfect bow lips opening and closing around the letters as he spoke. The hint of pink tongue hidden behind dazzlingly white teeth was a tease to John’s prick which immediately stiffened beneath the weight of Sherlock’s feet. He hoped the detective hadn’t noticed as he wiggled to release the pressure on his crotch, as Sherlock finally realised that John had stopped laughing.

“Penguin!” He shouted triumphantly.

“Ye-Yeah, Sherlock. Penguin,” John nodded before moving to stand. “Er… goodnight then.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the sudden change in atmosphere between them before looking down at his clasped hands. “John I… I hate to ask so soon after last time and especially because you’re intoxicated but…”

“Yeah alright, I’ll help,” John shrugged without argument. He had sobered up yet still had the lingering buzz of alcohol flooding through his veins making him feel invincible. He desperately wanted to feel Sherlock underneath him and didn’t want to give up the opportunity.

“Really?” Sherlock asked, stunned at the lack of argument. “Oh erm… in that case. Would you be so kind as to help me up?”

John nodded and stood, helping Sherlock carefully; the two men walked back towards Sherlock’s bedroom. John branched off into the bathroom and splashed some water over his face before drying himself off and returning to the bedroom in time to see Sherlock’s full, pale arse on its descent to the mattress. John felt his cock twitch in interest before being trampled down by John’s subconscious as he sat on the bed; the detective shuffled his bum slightly and moved the covers from across his genitals to bare himself to his best friend. Sherlock blushed and looked away, gasping and flinching at the unexpected sensation of John wrapping his hand around the half hard shaft.

John blinked owlishly and looked at his hand wrapped around his friend. “Sorry, should probably have warned you.”

“Its fine,” Sherlock nodded as John began a slow and steady rhythm of up and down motions followed by a twist at the cut tip, smearing the precum down the shaft whilst cupping his hands around Sherlock’s bollocks.

“You have a very pretty cock,” John smiled, before his eyes opened wide and he bit his bottom lip to stop himself talking.

“Erm… thanks?” Sherlock whispered, a tiny smile playing at the corner of his lips as John reached for the tube of lubricant on the bedside cabinet. He removed his hands from Sherlock’s genitals and opened the cap before smearing some across his hands; replacing his hand on Sherlock’s cock he pressed the first finger against his friend’s opening and smiled reassuringly. The detective took a few deep breaths and nodded to John, realising that _something_ felt different but he wasn’t sure what exactly, his lust filled brain was too fuddled to deduce.

The realisation hit him like a train, bringing his mind screeching to a halt as he cried, “You’re not wearing gloves!”

John stilled his hand, looking down at where he was finger deep inside his flatmate. The unfamiliar view of his naked hand inside another person’s body was startling; his tanned skin pressed against the milky white flesh of Sherlock was beautiful.

“Nevermind,” John whispered. The doctor part of his brain was telling him it wasn’t a good idea, but the rest of his mind was full of adjectives for ‘ _tight_ ’ and ‘ _warm_ ’ as he twisted his finger and stroked across the raised bump of Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock arched and groaned at the realisation that John’s digit was inside him with no barriers, John was touching a part of him that no other person had ever touched before. Sherlock wanted to have the imprint of John inside him forever and groaned deep and desperate at the thought of John inside him fully.

“Please,” Sherlock growled; his cheeks had taken on a beautiful flush of perfect pink and his lips were caught between his teeth as John picked up the pace, working his two hands together. The doctor pushed a second finger inside alongside his first and twisted, stroking the front wall of Sherlock’s insides.

John moved to a better position; his body stretched out alongside Sherlock with one leg hooked over the much longer one as his fingers remained in place whilst his other held himself up. “Touch yourself,” he ordered Sherlock who blinked at the unexpected request before nodding and wrapping long, callused fingers around heated flesh.

“Yeah, that’s it…beautiful,” John muttered, unaware of the words leaving his mouth as he stroked Sherlock’s sensitive spot and watched the flush of pink travel from Sherlock’s cheeks down to his throat and chest. John had the urge to take one of the pebbled nipples into his mouth and suck hard, forcing sounds out of Sherlock’s mouth which had never been uttered by the detective.

“John… John I’m… _oh God_ I’m going to cum,” Sherlock practically barked, his spine arching and his eyes rolling back as the pair combined their strokes. John looked over at Sherlock who was panting and bucking his hips up into his own grasp and gave into his own temptation; pulling his arm from under him he grabbed Sherlock’s curls and pulled him down for a deep, messy yet passionate kiss full of tongue and promise. Sherlock stiffened, his eyes flying open before he was over the edge of his orgasm and coming messily onto his stomach and chest. His hand stilled after a few further brushes of his hardness to coax the remaining drops out; John didn’t remove his lips, instead he carefully withdrew his fingers from inside Sherlock and wiped the excess lube onto the sheets before unzipping his own trousers and pulling out his dick.

“D’ya mind?” John asked against Sherlock’s lips, unwilling to dislodge himself for even a moment.

“No,” Sherlock breathed, opening his mouth once more and letting his tongue sweep across John’s lower lip and into John’s mouth. The doctor groaned, taking himself in hand and rubbing his hardness fast and rough, his thumb sliding across his slit to smear the precum around which leaked copiously down his shaft and into the coarse bush of pubic hair.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John whined, low and desperate as he pulled away from Sherlock’s lips and rested his head against the detective’s collarbone. “Fuck.”

Sherlock stayed still and silent; afraid to break the spell of John’s arousal. He was terrified that if John realised what he was doing, then he would stop and their friendship would become tense and eventually fracture into a million, unfixable pieces.

John arched, his body thrumming with energy as he toppled into his orgasm with a choked off gasp and a low rumble of a moan as small spurts of cum covered his fist and pubic hair. He panted heavily against Sherlock’s skin, letting the detective feel the warm, damp exhale on his flesh as John came back to reality with a groan.

“Christ. I shouldn’t have done that… Sorry, Sherlock,” John sighed, rolling onto his back and away from Sherlock as much as the double bed would allow. “Are you angry?”

“Angry? Why would I be angry?” Sherlock asked, his eyebrows furrowed.

“I’ve just tossed off on your bed whilst kissing you,” John replied tensely. “I know you don’t do that… sort of thing.”

Sherlock slammed his mouth shut and closed his eyes, breathing deeply before exhaling in a rush. “I'd like to sleep now.”

“Right… right,” John nodded. “I’ll just…”

“If you would,” Sherlock replied, grabbing his pyjama top and cleaning himself up quickly and inefficient before pulling the covers over his nakedness.

John tucked his rapidly softening penis back into his pants and felt his cum soak into the fabric of his underwear and t-shirt as he stood and looked down at his friend. “Sherlock, I…”

“Shut the door, John.”

John did.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst!
> 
> TW tiny mention of drug use and death. Nothing at all to worry about.

Sherlock felt like the air had been stolen from his lungs as he watched John leave the room; the detective followed his friend's progress from the door, up the stairs to his own bedroom before there was a creak of bedsprings and a sad, drawn out groan which sounded like a wounded animal. Sherlock pushed the balls of his fists into his eye sockets and attempted to inhale and exhale to get rid of the lump which had formed in his throat, and the low level nausea flooding his stomach.

He shouldn’t have sent John away; he should have offered to share his bed. John may have rejected him, called him a freak and insisted that it was only down to the alcohol flowing through his veins that he had deemed it appropriate to use Sherlock as a masturbatory aid. John would apologise and Sherlock would accept it and they would go back to their cosy little life of Sherlock ignoring his feelings and John making tea. They would stay together until John found a vacuous and terrible woman who would immediately begin to suck the life out of the radiant John Watson, and they would get married and have children and retire to some terribly middle-class area with beige walls and brown carpets where John would cycle to work and deal with dull patients in his surgery who would flutter their eyelashes and thank the wonderful GP for his help whilst John desperately tried not to scream at the top of his lungs that he was suffocating and dying under all of the pressure of being a regular person; because John Watson wasn’t a regular person, Sherlock realised, John Watson was one in a million, an anomaly to the graph, an exception to the rule.

Without John, the work would suffer. Their work was the equivalent of a fulgurite; a thing of beauty which forms when an unstoppable and dramatic act touches a sturdy and immovable base. John was the sand, Sherlock was the lightning and together they created something rare and marvellous. The closest thing to magic possible in the modern world. Sherlock may be able to continue his puzzles and cases for a while, the boredom would be quelled but eventually everything would fail because John wasn’t there to be the missing half of Sherlock; the emotions and feelings part which the detective failed so terribly at would eventually drive his clients away and when Lestrade moved up the hierarchy or _god forbid_ was hurt in the line of duty, Sherlock would have driven the other Yarders so far away that they wouldn’t ask for his help. He would need to rely on Mycroft for his cases, and the thought of begging his loathsome brother for help would be too much for him to deal with. He would retreat into the flat, become a recluse who lived only to annotate and correct newly released books and work on rapidly tiresome chemical experiments until the urge to use drugs would once more raise its ugly head, and without John to create a diversion or reason not to indulge, Sherlock would give in and chase the high, using more and more until he overdosed sitting alone in the terribly messy Baker Street flat which had become both his hideaway and tomb. He may be found or he may not, he could be rotting away like a piece of timber in the Thames until the smell annoyed Mrs Turner’s married ones. The police would break down the doors and discover his bloated and blackened body and take him away for Molly Hooper to look over at the morgue. She would cry of course and contact Mycroft who would arrange a funeral to which John would attend and look sad, but eventually travel back to his house devoid of character and purpose to continue his life for another fifty years where he would have grandchildren and holidays and family parties with children singing happy birthday or Christmas carols, and John would occasionally think back on Sherlock with a soft fondness.

It was all positively hateful.

Sherlock climbed from the bed, wincing as the dried semen he had missed tugged on his body hair, and pulled on a pair of pyjama pants and his robe. Hobbling to the stairs as quietly as possible, he sat on the third step from bottom and simply listened to John breathing. It was obvious that the doctor was sleeping soundly, a soft wheeze and occasional snore rumbled through the open door and allowed Sherlock to calm his breathing and remove the lingering panic attack in his chest as he followed John’s breaths. _In, out, in, out, in, out._

Sherlock didn’t know how to do this. These feelings and sentimental thoughts were everything which went against his logical approach to life; Mycroft had always insisted that caring wasn’t an advantage and people like them shouldn’t get involved but Mycroft was now with Lestrade. The pair had been in a relationship a year and seemingly happy together; if Mycroft the unfeeling wonder could make a go of a relationship why couldn’t Sherlock? John was a better man than Lestrade ( _although Sherlock was fond of Lestrade, he didn_ _’t compare to John)._

The detective stood; realising what he needed to do, he slumped in front of the fire in his chair and looked up at the mantle.

“I need help.”

The skull looked on unseeing, despite its lack of eyes Sherlock felt the judging weight of its gaze as he began to talk.

“What do I do? If I tell him about my _feelings,_ _”_ Sherlock grimaced and spat out the word before continuing, “he could tell me to piss off.”

Sherlock rubbed his face and glared at his bony friend. “Are you being obtuse on purpose?”

The skull laughed sadly and informed Sherlock of John’s own feelings. The erection in the woods, the care and attention the doctor provided for Sherlock on an almost daily basis, the ever constant exclamations of ‘brilliant’ or ‘amazing’ whenever the detective made a particularly intriguing deduction. Plus, the skull continued, the lingering looks and touches suggested that John wasn’t as biased towards a homosexual relationship as Sherlock had once deduced.

Sherlock had deduced John’s relationship with James Sholto fairly early in their acquaintance. Well… he hadn’t exactly deduced it, rather he had sneaked into John’s bedroom and looked through his possessions until he found the secret stash of carefully folded letters and photographs from his time in the army. It hadn’t been a difficult puzzle to solve as to who JS was and Sherlock had been confused as to why James had signed his letters so formally, until he realised he still signed off his text messages with his initials.

The letters were standard and boring; promises of a relationship at the conclusion of their tour, declarations of love and fidelity which rapidly turned into heated descriptions of what they wanted to do to one another. Sherlock could only read James’ replies of course but he could imagine John’s responses thanks to the various hacked emails to John’s dull girlfriends.

The correspondence had ended soon after John’s injury; the last letter was full of regretful apologies and _it's not you, it_ _’s me_ excuses which made Sherlock roll his eyes. ( _It was never you, it was always them. They needed space, although they never specified quite how much space they needed it seemed to be the exact same height, breadth and width as the person they were breaking up with.)_

Sherlock entwined his fingers together and sighed; he doubted he would be able to sleep tonight with so much going on in his mind but he could continue on with his experiment on the chicken beaks in acid he had been working on. Sherlock moved from the stairs and noticed his violin sitting on his chair. Lifting it to his shoulder, he inhaled deeply and began to play.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tiny TW for mention of suicidal thoughts.

John slept fitfully; his dreams flitted from one scene to the next seemingly at random as he bounced between the Afghan sands and the tiny flat he had occupied before meeting Sherlock.

_He was on his back looking up at the blazing sun; the heat and light burning his eyes as he swallowed slowly, feeling the life slipping from him as crimson liquid dripped, dripped, dripped through the hole in his uniform and into the sand. He could hear screaming and the sounds of bullets ricocheting around him but inside he felt peace, he didn_ _’t feel panic or terror as his eyes slipped closed for seemingly the last time, only to snap open seconds later and blink at the unfamiliar surroundings which he quickly recognised as the flat subsidised by the Army after his medical discharge._

In his dreams he was never in pain; unlike when he actually lived in that tiny shithole. He was in almost constant agony from the healing of his shoulder wound and the limp which stopped him being active and friendly like he had been before. His heart however was hurt most, ripped out and torn apart by the very person he felt he could trust most in the entire world other than Harry, he had trusted James, loved him, opened himself up and bared his entire soul to his superior and James had thrown it back at him with the most hurtful of words, “I’ve met someone else.”

_Dream John climbed from the bed and wandered to the desk, and pulling open the drawer, he pulled out the gun and began stripping it, cleaning every inch until it gleamed in the dull light. He put it back together and stared, wondering if today would be the day he finally had the courage to lift the gun to his temple and hold it steady. Would his hand shake? Would he be as calm as he was on his back in the sand?_

John awoke to the sound of Sherlock playing his violin; the melodies seemed to float on the still air up the stairs and danced their way to John, calming his frenzied thoughts and giving the doctor a moments respite from his nightmares. John listened, enjoying the quiet and soft notes which were so unlike the usually shrill and frantic squeals of Sherlock’s ‘thinking’ music. He fell back to sleep with the thought of Sherlock in his mind, the detective looking down at him with the genuine smile on his lips, the twinkle in his eyes and the crease of his brow.

_“Come on, John!_ _” Dream Sherlock insisted as he ran through the dark alleyway, pushing John backwards as the knife wielding murderer turned the corner and aimed for John_ _’s chest. Sherlock disarmed him with one swift and capable move before pushing him to the floor and securing his arms before looking up at John._ _“Are you alright?_ _”_

_Dream John nodded, smiling brightly as he placed a hand on Sherlock_ _’s cheek._ _“I love you._ _”_

_“I love you, too,_ _” Sherlock grinned, dipping his head and looking up through his long eyelashes._

* * *

John awoke with a slight headache which was dwarfed by the realisation that he had kissed Sherlock. He had kissed his best friend and then, _Christ,_ he had wanked beside him with the same hand that had been buried ungloved into his mate's arse. John sighed and rubbed at his face before rolling out of the bed and grabbing some fresh pants to take into the bathroom; after showering, shaving and taking a long drink from the tap he turned and walked back downstairs, dreading seeing Sherlock.

The detective was sitting at the kitchen table fully dressed with his robe on; John blinked and ran his eyes below the table top to see Sherlock had cut off the bottom of his trouser leg to allow for his cast.

“Going somewhere nice?” John asked as he filled up the kettle with water and set it off to boil.

“Hmm? Oh, no,” Sherlock gestured with his hand, passing John the paper. “Just sick of wearing pyjamas or jogging pants.”

“I must admit, you look much better in your usual clothes,” John smiled and then quieted himself, _why did he say that? Would Sherlock think that there was something between them now? Would he ask John to leave?_

“John, could you please have your sexual crisis elsewhere? Your thoughts are distracting,” Sherlock mumbled from the Obituaries page.

“Sherlock…about last night,” John mumbled, scrubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Why?” Sherlock replied, without looking up.

“Well… It went too far. I shouldn’t have pushed myself on you.”

Sherlock sighed, his hands moving to his lips as he looked over at his best friend. “John, have you ever known me do anything I didn’t want to do?”

“Well… No,” John started only to be interrupted by Sherlock.

“And regardless of your weight and training advantage, do you not think I would have fought back if felt I was being taken advantage of?” Sherlock continued.

“Yes but…”

“So what can you deduce from that?” Sherlock coaxed, fixing John with a heated stare.

“T- That you… you wanted me to… you want me to…” John trailed off, his eyebrows meeting his hairline.

“I meant what I said in the woods,” Sherlock said seriously. “I told you, you couldn’t _have me like that_ but I only meant it in regards to being outside at that time, I think, I was confused and hypothermic so my judgement may not have been sound. In general, I'd quite like to touch you, kiss you, be with you, John.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed, scrubbing his face. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Sherlock stiffened his shoulders and glared at his friend. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re obviously in pain or under the influence of the medication… you can’t mean that.” John whispered, his voice strangely tight in his throat.

“Are you suggesting that I do not have the wits and intelligence to understand my own feelings?” Sherlock barked, suddenly furious. “How dare you! Just because I am… inexperienced in these matters doesn’t mean that I’m an idiot.”

“Sherlock I…” John started only to be interrupted by Sherlock’s rant.

“If morons like Anderson can understand love and affection, why can’t I?” Sherlock continued, his hands gesturing wildly with frustration. “Do you really think I am that incapable of understanding?”

“No! I wasn’t suggesting anything like that,” John sighed before taking a seat opposite Sherlock and lowering his eyes to the table. “I think I owe you an explanation.”

Sherlock gestured with his hands in a petulant _go on then_ and sat back in his chair with his arms folded over his chest, careful not to upset his still sore ribs.

“Before… in the army. I was in love,” John whispered before looking over at the oven in an attempt to avoid the look in Sherlock’s eyes. “It was stupid, immature and ultimately dangerous. He was my superior officer and we weren’t exactly discreet.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock grunted but watched John intently as the doctor opened up.

“My feelings were stronger than his,” John continued, refusing to name his ex despite the obvious fact that Sherlock already knew. “I fell hard for him, I had known I was bisexual for a long time but had never acted on it after Harry came out. Once I was in the army I had the freedom to do as I pleased and I found myself drawn to _him._ I truly believed it was love.”

Sherlock had stopped his sulk and was listening intently to John’s story, watching the pain flit across the doctor's face occasionally.

“We finished badly, after I was injured… he wrote me a final letter telling me he had met somebody else, a woman and we were over. I was heartbroken.” John flushed slightly before moving his hands to rip apart the business section of the newspaper. “It made my recovery a million times worse. I was in constant pain, my PTSD started with a vengeance and I couldn’t eat or sleep. I considered ending everything, I was sure that I'd never find anybody interested in me again with my scarred shoulder, mental health problems and the limp. I used to sit and stare at my gun, thinking about how easy it would be to pull the trigger.”

Sherlock felt a throb of sadness, anger and heartbreak at the thought that he had unknowingly come so close to losing the wonderful John Watson twice. Once in the desert and again in the small nondescript flat.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said softly, unsure of what else to say.

John nodded slowly and bit his lower lip as he admitted his deep held secrets for the first time. “The day that I saw Stamford…”

“The day we met,” Sherlock clarified, watching as John nodded.

“I was going to do it that day. I’d been to see Ella and told her that nothing happens to me and it was true. I lived in misery, I was in pain and angry. I snapped at people and didn’t recognise myself any longer.” John sighed and scrubbed at his eyes. “I was tired Sherlock, so tired.”

Sherlock unfolded his arms and outstretched his hand to grasp John’s own, rubbing his thumb over John’s dry skin on the back of his hand.

“When I walked into the lab and saw you that day,” John smiled, “I felt something I hadn’t for a long time.”

“What?” Sherlock whispered.

“Attraction. I was attracted to you,” John replied with a blush, turning to face his best friend and staring into Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock gasped and lowered his head. He had deduced it of course, but it was totally different to hear it from John’s mouth.

“The things you said, your intelligence and the way you moved,” John grinned. “I'd never met anybody like you. Still haven’t.”

“Mycroft is like me,” Sherlock replied before frowning, _why did I bring him up?! Stupid, stupid!_

“Intelligence wise, yes,” John nodded, seemingly unfazed by the thought of Mycroft during their intimate discussion. “But he doesn’t compare to you.”

Sherlock flushed and dropped his head, looking up at John through his eyelashes. “Then Angelo’s…”

John laughed and nodded. “The words, _it_ _’s all fine_ will haunt me for the rest of my life.”

The younger man huffed a laugh and chuckled deeply, feeling the heavy weight on his chest suddenly disappear as John joined him in laughing.

“I thought that I could ask about your sex life. I wasn’t sure if you were gay or straight…or anything. I’m still not. Not sure what _married to my work_ entails,” John admitted cautiously.

“I don’t particularly subscribe to any sexuality,” Sherlock shrugged and blushed. “I’ve never really found anybody interesting before.”

“Why me?” John asked incredulously with a sad sigh. “Why do you find me attractive, Sherlock? I’m nothing special, I’m not…I’m not anything.”

“You are,” Sherlock insisted forcefully, pulling his emotions back into control. “You are everything. You are my life and everything in it.”

John shook his head sadly and sniffed. “And you said I was the poet.”

“I’ve read your emails, remember. Your girlfriends seemed to appreciate your terrible attempts,” Sherlock scoffed.

Sherlock looked up from his spot at the kitchen table and noticed the look on John's face, the doctor looked like he was either going to punch him or kiss him... he knew which he would prefer. Bracing himself for impact, he watched as John walked towards him and brushed a stray curl from his forehead. "You can be a right cock, do you know that?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday so I'm celebrating with pizza, vodka and smut! I thought id post this early especially because I love you.
> 
> Lead up to smut!

Bracing himself for impact, he watched as John walked towards him and brushed a stray curl from his forehead. "You can be a right cock, do you know that?"

Sherlock flicked his eyes to follow John’s hand and turned his head aside, stroking the end of his nose along his palm. “Are you using that as an endearment or as a complaint?” He asked lowly with a fleeting twitch of his mouth. John huffed a laugh and whispered, "A bit of both I suppose," before lowering his head and capturing Sherlock's lips in a soft and chaste kiss. There was no passion or desperation unlike their drunken kiss the night before, this was full of feeling and affection as Sherlock relaxed into the embrace and allowed John's hands to tangle into his curls.

With a long drawn-out sigh, Sherlock closed his eyes and parted his lips to return the kiss, his lips dry and warm and firm as he leaned up a little, gripping the table for balance. He opened his eyes again after a moment and gazed at John’s blurry face up close, focusing on one freckle and then counting the hairs of his eyebrow.

"We can take it slow, as slow as you need," John insisted softly, stroking Sherlock's hair once more. "I want to kiss you again, may I?"

“Stupid question,” Sherlock murmured as he swallowed thickly and flashed John a quick smile, pushing up into John’s touch and angling for another kiss with a stabbing spark of eagerness in his chest that shuddered down his extremities, even making his injured leg throb beneath the cast. “Yes. Yes, please, John.”

"You mean the world to me," John whispered against Sherlock's lips, before opening his own and slowly allowing his tongue to flick against the seam of the bow lips. He slipped his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and tasted him, the lingering taste of jam and tea below something so perfectly Sherlock that John felt his heart twinge and his stomach flip with adoration for his best friend.

The table creaked as Sherlock put more of his weight against it when his body sagged under the shattering rushes of emotion that flooded him at John’s words. He whimpered softly and slotted his mouth at a different angle, deepening the kiss a little more passionately, sliding his hands awkwardly to John’s shoulders. Sherlock felt humiliated by his lack of experience and tried to recall the night before, mimicking what John had done then and what John was doing at that moment, mixing the two techniques together and blushing when the kiss turned wet and zealous. He separated their lips for a second with a downturned mouth, angry at his inexperience, but took a breath through his nose and clutched John’s pyjama top tightly, connecting them again with a buzz of pleasure.

John groaned and took hold of Sherlock's hands, taking them from their tight grip on John’s pyjama top and moving them until they rested with one on his chest and the other holding his waist, as he wrapped his own hands around Sherlock's head and held the small soft curls at the base of Sherlock's skull. He stroked the hairs and twirled them in his fingers as he employed all of his favourite techniques, rolling his tongue and licking the roof of Sherlock's mouth as they worked together.

After only a short few moments, Sherlock whined embarrassingly loudly and gripped at John, panting in his mouth and yielding to John’s caresses with a high flush on his cheeks. He copied John as much as he could and slipped his own tongue against John’s before becoming interested in nipping at John’s lips, tugging at the top one with a hot breath and a lusty grin, then stroking and kneading at John’s waist. Sherlock could feel John’s heart with his other hand and he spread his fingers and pushed up against it, entranced and giddy from the rapid thumping that matched his own thundering pulse.

John pulled away from Sherlock's lips and rested his forehead against Sherlock's own, feeling their panting breaths mingling together as they rushed down the gaping front of John's pyjama top. Sherlock tapped his fingers against John's skin in the rhythm of his heartbeat and smiled at the pattern. John allowed his friend to beat on his shirt before pulling Sherlock to his feet and pressing their bodies flush against one another, the height difference was awkward but John had been with taller people in the past and was accustomed to looking up for a kiss. Sherlock ran his hand from John's heart up his throat to cup around his jawline and moved to kiss his lover once more, a soft groan leaving his lips unbidden as he felt John's arousal touching his hip.

“Your ankle?” John asked carefully, looking up at Sherlock with huge, black blown pupils.

“Fine, I’m okay,” Sherlock nodded. “Laying down might be better though,” he added cheekily and smiled, a genuine and warm grin which made John’s stomach flip with excitement.

“Suppose so,” John sighed, feigning frustration, but helped Sherlock to potter along to the detective’s bedroom. Sherlock stilled in the doorway and took a deep breath as John turned to look. “Hey, hey. There’s no rush.”

“I want to,” Sherlock nodded, squaring his shoulders and taking John’s hand in his own as they walked towards the bed. The detective sat on the edge of the mattress and brought John closer to him, opening his thighs so that the smaller man could stand between Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock’s face was at the same height as John’s stomach so he moved forward and began pressing soft, breathy kisses over the slightly rounded tummy. John smiled and let his head fall back as Sherlock explored his skin with tongue and lips, nipping at his hipbones before running his hands up and down John’s sides.

“As much or as little as you want. You can explore,” John insisted with a soft smile as he ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “You’re the boss… as usual.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh and lifted his head for another kiss. John understood the gesture and lowered his lips to meet Sherlock in the middle, opening his mouth and allowing his tongue to flick inside the warm, wet heat as his hands continued tangling in Sherlock’s hair.

“You keep doing that,” Sherlock whispered against John’s lips.

“Hmm,” the doctor shrugged and cupped Sherlock’s cheekbones with his hands. “Lovely. 

“My god, I’ve made you lose the ability to speak from a few kisses to your abdomen,” Sherlock chuckled. “I guess the rumours of you being a sex god were extremely misleading?”

“It’s totally different shagging someone you’ve just met and shagging someone you’re in lov—shit.” John flushed red. “Shit, ignore that. Sorry, fuck.”

“You’re in love with me?” Sherlock asked, his eyes wide as he stared up at his friend. “With me?”

“Obviously,” John sighed, sitting down beside Sherlock and taking his hand. “I thought it was obvious.”

Sherlock shook his head and blinked repeatedly. “You’re in love with me.”

“Alright, stop saying it,” John grumbled, his erection steadily deflating now the blood was rushing to his face in embarrassment. “I should go…”

“I love you too,” Sherlock grinned. “I think I do… I’m fairly certain I do. I’ve never felt love or experienced it but I’m 87% sure that I feel the chemical makeup of love and sexual desire with you.”

“That’s a high number,” John smiled softly.

“Hmm. I’m not sure I’ll be a good boyfriend or lover,” Sherlock continued without looking away from his doorway. “I don’t know how to do all of this,” he gestured between the pair of them on the bed, “but if you want to try…with me… I would be amenable.”

“I do,” John nodded with a soft smile, “I really, really do.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pure smut!

Both men undressed without ceremony and climbed onto the bed together; John lay himself with his head on the pillow and put one arm behind his head before pulling Sherlock across with his other arm. They kissed for long moments, relaxing into the embrace as they slipped their tongues into one another’s mouths; Sherlock sighed, his hands moving to stroke across John’s skin, especially the scar which marred the doctor’s shoulder. The younger man looked up at his lover, his eyes soft and gentle as he asked for permission to touch and explore; John nodded, taking a deep breath as he bared himself to Sherlock for the first time intimately ( _their naked cuddle in the woods didn_ _’t count)_. He had always kept his vest or shirt on during sex with his girlfriends or had insisted on the light being off but now, in the natural morning light in Sherlock’s bedroom, John felt no need to hide himself away.

“Perfect,” Sherlock whispered reverently. “You have very pleasing muscle tone.”

John smiled and ran his fingers along Sherlock’s spine. “You say the nicest things.”

“Did… Did I do wrong?” Sherlock asked nervously, pulling his fingers away.

“No. Not at all. You’re perfect,” John reassured his lover, pulling him down for a lingering kiss before feeling Sherlock shifting at the discomfort of his ankle. John moved his hands and let Sherlock sit at his side with his leg outstretched whilst still running his fingers over John’s creamy coloured skin; John sighed and attempted to take calming breaths as Sherlock skimmed his fingers across his ribs, abdomen and then lower to his upper thighs. His long, callused fingers twirling the hairs he found before returning back to John’s navel and nipples.

“John I… I'd like to experience everything,” Sherlock blushed, looking down. “Would you take me?”

“God, Sherlock,” John groaned, gripping his cock tightly to stop the ache which had been growing since they walked to the bedroom. “Are you sure? Not all gay couples do that, you know.”

Sherlock frowned. “I don’t understand what that has to do with us…”

“I’m just saying… You don’t have to do anything like that if you’re not comfortable. I don’t mind,” John insisted, stroking Sherlock’s cheek. “I love you regardless.”

“Don’t be an idiot, John,” Sherlock scoffed. “Now, are you going to bugger me or not?”

John burst into giggles and looked at the smile on Sherlock’s face; the tension and nervousness had left the detective completely and instead, the flush on Sherlock’s cheeks showed that he was truly excited for the next step of their relationship.

“It’ll take some preparation,” John insisted calmly. “I’m not going to rush.”

“Understood,” Sherlock nodded.

“This is my first time doing it… this way,” John blushed, “so I’m aware of the mechanics but I’ve never experienced it…”

“Interesting,” Sherlock whispered as he and John swapped places; he was lying on his back now looking up at his lover. “You were always the bottom previously?”

“Hmm,” John shrugged with a blush. “I don’t think James wanted to be seen as ‘gay’ so he wouldn’t bottom.”

“And it’s not gay to stick your cock up another man’s arse?” Sherlock scoffed. “Ridiculous fool.”

John smiled warmly and ran his hands across the plains of Sherlock’s stomach and hips. “We’ll have to be gentle with your ribs.”

“I trust you,” Sherlock replied, his voice biting back the emotion and sentiment which wanted to pour out and flood the space between them.

“I’ll never hurt you,” John reassured, before grabbing for the lubricant and smearing some on his fingers. His brain reminded him of their encounter the night before but he shook it away, that was nothing compared to what they were about to do.

Sherlock stilled himself and took a deep breath as John spread his thighs open, pressing soft kisses along the fleshy skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh as his finger moved to its position at Sherlock’s entrance. The detective took a deep breath and nodded to John who grasped the younger man’s cock softly and began to stroke, all the time maintaining eye contact with his lover.

“You’re so beautiful,” John whispered into the air between them, looking between the pink flushed cock and Sherlock’s pink flushed chest.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, his voice breaking momentarily as John slowly pressed his finger into Sherlock’s body. The ring of muscle was tight, especially around John’s thick fingers and Sherlock felt the momentary shock of terror that he would never be able to fit John inside him. He would tear and fall to pieces before John was fully sheathed in his body.

“Relax,” John soothed, kissing a trail from Sherlock’s knee to his upper thigh. “You’re okay.”

Sherlock nodded and took a deep, calming breath before feeling John probe him further. His finger twisted and twirled around the inner walls, seeking Sherlock’s prostate and circling it gently when he found it. Sherlock’s breathing hitched and warmth spread through his body as John continued to stroke his cock and combine it with efficient caresses of his prostate. The detective let his legs fall further open, his hips undulating for more pressure until John chuckled dryly and sucked a mark into the skin of his upper thigh, pulling out his finger and replacing it with two carefully.

There was a slight burn as Sherlock clamped down on John’s fingers but he quickly relaxed himself and closed his eyes, remembering the sight of John’s face in the moments of climax. He was excited to think of finally experiencing sex, especially with somebody he had feelings towards; John noticed him relaxing and moved his hand from his cock to rub across his toned abdomen, feeling the fluttering muscles before cricking his fingers against Sherlock’s prostate once more.

“John, please,” Sherlock begged, opening his eyes in shock that he’d actually spoken without realising.

“Shhh love, almost,” John smiled, pulling his fingers out and adding a third and final digit. Sherlock almost didn’t feel the stretch, already floating above himself in absolute bliss as he thought of the countless ways he could pleasure John, and John in turn could pleasure him. He could look on the internet and find strange and unusual positions, they could act out sexual acts which had led to deaths and then Sherlock could solve them! He could…

“Sherlock?” John nudged against his prostate, startling him back to reality. “Oi, where did you go?”

“Sorry, I was thinking of sex death.”

“Of course you were,” John chuckled, his cheeks going red as he shook his head fondly. “I’m not sure whether to be amused or horrified.”

“A little of both?” Sherlock suggested with a weak shrug, his hands moving from their grip on the bedding to push back his sweaty curls from his face.

“Hmm. You’re ready now if you still want to do it,” John suggested softly; he didn’t want Sherlock to say he wasn’t ready but he also didn’t want to force Sherlock into something he wasn’t prepared for.

“Yes,” Sherlock said simply, biting his bottom lip. “Erm… how?”

“Oh,” John grumbled, looking over at Sherlock’s bruised ribs and broken foot. “Any preference?”

“I have no idea,” Sherlock shrugged. “This isn’t really my area.”

“Well, I think you on top is out of the question, I can’t climb on you and push you down either…” John mumbled.

“From behind?” Sherlock suggested.

“Not for your first time,” John insisted before blushing. “I… I want to be able to feel you against me.”

“Right,” Sherlock nodded. “Shall I fetch my laptop? We can see what positions we can find?”

“No. I know…” John suddenly grinned. “Let me wiggle up there.”

“I hope you mean the bed and not me,” Sherlock quipped with a grin, moving his body over to one side to allow John to lie beside him on the pillows.

“Git,” the older man laughed before kissing Sherlock softly. “Can you get on your side? The one least hurt.”

Sherlock nodded and turned onto his side, feeling the wondrous sensation of John’s chest against his back. His hard cock was pressed into the flesh of Sherlock’s buttock, making the detective grind slightly which forced a groan from John’s lips.

“Don’t do that,” John sighed, his head between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “It will be over far, far too soon if you tease.”

John slicked up his cock with lube, adding more to Sherlock’s hole before wrapping one arm under Sherlock’s neck. He bent it to rest against Sherlock’s sternum whilst the other held his cock and slowly pushed it between Sherlock’s cheeks. The detective stilled and gasped at the size, panicking once more about it not fitting but John quickly nuzzled into his neck and the back of his skull, whispering sweet nothings and tapping out Sherlock’s heartbeat against his skin to force the younger man to relax into the sensations. Sherlock took a deep breath and released it as John pressed the head of his cock inside; it stretched and burnt, taking Sherlock by surprise at the intense sensations. A slight whimper of discomfort escaped his lips as he rocked his hips in an attempt to find a comfortable position.

“Shh love, it’s okay,” John soothed, his nose rubbing along Sherlock’s sweaty jawline. “I have you. Relax and listen to me. I know it’s intense but bear down, you’ll be okay.”

Sherlock nodded that he had understood John’s words and relaxed as much as possible, bearing down into his bum until he felt John slip further inside. It was a strange feeling, weirder than Sherlock had imagined but eventually he felt the coarse hairs of John’s pubic hair against his buttocks, signalling that he was fully inside.

“Christ. Sherlock, please don’t move,” John begged. “I… fuck I can’t…”

“I need a moment anyway,” Sherlock huffed, his head leaning back to rest against John’s forehead. “You’re so big.”

“You’re so tight. I’ve never… my god it’s better than I had ever imagined,” John growled, the urge to rut and _take_ so overwhelming that it almost took his breath away.

“John,” Sherlock whispered after a few moments of stillness and deep breathing. “Can you move? Please move.”

John nodded against Sherlock’s skin and began to roll his hips. Not enough to create a thrust but enough to stimulate Sherlock’s insides as he moved gently in and out, rocking and caressing Sherlock’s prostate with gentle nudges.

“Oh Christ,” Sherlock wailed, his lips caught between his teeth. “Jo-John I, oh Christ!”

John could only watch as Sherlock juddered and came across the bedding with a choked off moan. His insides clamping and twitching around John’s cock as John blinked in shock and surprise. “Sherlock?”

“John,” Sherlock grumbled, his face sweaty and red as he reached behind to grab John’s hand and entwine their fingers together. “John...”

“It’s alright love, you’re alright,” John whispered. “Have I broken you? You didn’t even touch yourself!”

Sherlock gave a high pitched giggle and rolled his hips once more. “I have no idea but that… that was good.”

“Just good?” John tutted playfully. “Well, looks like we’re going to have to fix that… if you’re still ok for me to continue?”

“You better,” Sherlock warned with a playful snarl before rolling his hips. “I want you to ejaculate into me.”

“Christ. Your voice, it should be classed as a sex aid,” John whispered as he kissed the sweaty skin of Sherlock’s spine, tasting salt and Sherlock’s own body.

“Hmm,” Sherlock mumbled in agreement before pushing back further. “Move, John.”

“Yes, yes. Bloody hell you’re a diva,” John laughed as he gave a hard thrust inside, sending all thoughts from Sherlock’s head as his prostate was suddenly pounded with each jerk of John’s hips. John kept their fingers entwined but moved to wrap them around Sherlock’s still hard and rapidly aching cock, stroking him firmly and swiftly in time with his thrusts.

Sherlock maintained a steady stream of words which came out garbled as he tilted his head and desperately sought out John’s lips. Their panted breath brushing against one another’s faces as they moved slickly together, entwining their legs carefully to ensure they didn’t hurt Sherlock’s ankle. Sherlock threw back his head, groaning deeply and arching his spine to begin his own thrusts, matching John’s until their sweaty skin slapped against one another.

“Sherlock,” John moaned, sucking and biting on Sherlock’s bottom lip. “I won’t last… I can’t...”

“So close, John,” Sherlock responded, he looked positively wrecked with sweat damp curls bouncing with each thrust and his cheeks blazing red. His lips had become swollen and plump from the kissing and sucking and droplets of sweat created streams along his neck, chest and abdomen before falling to the bed with each forward thrust of his hips.

“Come for me pet, come Sherlock, I love you,” John growled, his arm pulling Sherlock closer whilst his other hand sped up around Sherlock’s prick. “I’m going to come.”

Sherlock wailed as his orgasm hit him; spurts of come covered his stomach, abdomen and the bed as his insides clenched around John’s cock, milking the doctor's climax in rapid time. John gave a final shaky thrust before stilling his hips and shuddering through his orgasm with a choked off groan as he let his head rest between Sherlock’s sweaty shoulders. Sherlock was trembling, lying in John’s arms meekly as John finished his peak and began to relax into the soothing afterglow of love making.

“That was…” Sherlock started, before blinking and realising he had no idea what word to use to describe the act, “remarkable.”

“Good,” John smiled. “I’m glad.”

“Was it… pleasurable for you?” Sherlock asked cautiously, turning his head to look over his shoulder at John’s grinning face.

“Perfect,” John smiled, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s nose. “Let me clean you up and then we’ll sleep a little.”

“Sleep is boring, John,” Sherlock yawned drowsily.

“Um-ha,” John chuckled. “But it means you get to measure a lot of new data. Whether I snore, how often my I turn in my sleep.”

Sherlock smiled and relaxed into the bed. “Well, hop to it then. Data to be collected and all.”

“Twat,” John smiled, running his hand through Sherlock’s sweaty curls and pressing a kiss to his lover's head. “This might be uncomfortable but breath through it.”

The older man slowly pulled his now softening cock from Sherlock’s insides and watched as his lover winced and then relaxed. A steady stream of cum had slipped from Sherlock’s entrance and had ran along his cheeks making Sherlock grumble and run his fingers through the mess. “Was it really necessary to make this much mess, John?”

“Afraid so, unless you want to start using condoms,” John replied, sitting up and pulling on a pair of pants despite being alone in the flat with his lover.

“No. That sounds awful,” Sherlock admitted, putting his slick fingers into his mouth only to be slapped away by John.

“That’s vile. Don’t do that!” John balked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but gave a soft smile at his best friend. “I won’t self clean John, chop chop!”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter. Thank you so much for the kudos, comments and subscriptions. I love you all.

“I still don’t think this a good idea,” John grumbled as he followed Sherlock through vaguely familiar fields. The rucksack on his back tugged on his bad shoulder, but he had refused to let Sherlock carry it out of pride and stubbornness as they walked through the endless green fields and over wooden stiles until they reached their destination. The waterfall in which Sherlock had fallen six months previously.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock grumbled, waving dismissively as he continued to walk. Although he had remained in his tailored suit and longcoat, he had acquiesced to John’s demands and put on a pair of sturdy and rugged walking boots which looked utterly ridiculous but John had insisted that he wear them. The doctor had also packed the backpack with essentials including a full first aid kit, spare jumpers, heat packs, a thermos of tea and various other pointless things which had taken up so much room that Sherlock had been unable to take a second set of test tubes ( _he had stored the first ones in his coat but John had refused to put aside the_ _‘essentials_ _’ for glassware_ ) much to his annoyance. Sherlock walked to the entrance to the waterfall and smiled as he got to work, leaving John hovering nervously at the water’s edge.

“Relax,” Sherlock smiled. “It’s unlikely to happen again.”

“Unlikely means nothing around you,” John sniped. “It just means there is a larger chance of other unforeseen disasters happening.”

Sherlock shrugged and continued to work, collecting various samples before bottling some of the water and carefully wrapping them. Placing them on the ground, he turned to John and offered his hand. “Come here.”

“Why?” John grumbled, but quickly took his lover’s hand. Sherlock walked them to the area where they had sheltered together for warmth and took off his coat; spreading it onto the ground, he lay down and pulled John along with him until they were cuddled together in the mild spring heat. Birds twittered in the tree canopy above them and the rush of the waterfall gave the whole scene a vaguely dreamy quality as John allowed himself to lie down beside his lover and cuddle with his head against Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s hair and over his face before spreading them under the doctor’s shirt. John smiled softly as Sherlock once more catalogued his body, enjoying the mixture of the outdoor weather, Sherlock’s stimulus and the risk of being caught. Sherlock obviously noticed his growing erection and palmed him over his trousers, lowering his head and nudging John until the older man took the hint and looked up for a deep and arousing kiss.

“That probably isn’t a good idea,” John grimaced as his cock twitched in anger at his words. “What if we get caught?”

“Who will catch us?” Sherlock asked, nuzzling John’s neck and throat and placing a bright purple mark on John’s pale skin.

“Kids? Farmers? Helicopter pilots?” John listed before groaning as Sherlock timed a suck and a particularly good stroke of his cock.

“It’s a school day. Nearest farm is three miles, too dense trees for helicopters,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly. “I’ve already prepared.”

“What? When?” John choked, chuckling slightly.

“Back at the guest house,” Sherlock waved dismissively. “I was planning on wearing a plug but I thought it best not incase I fell into the water again.”

John laughed heartily and shook his head. “You’re explaining to Mycroft why we’re arrested for gross indecency if we get caught.”

“Please never mention Mycroft’s name whilst I’m touching your penis,” Sherlock grumbled. “That is the only gross indecency in this scenario.”

John rolled his eyes but ran a steady hand down Sherlock’s side until he cupped his buttocks through his ridiculously tight trousers. “Fine, but you’re doing all the work.”

Sherlock grinned, pulling away from John and immediately dropping his trousers before working on John’s zipper. The doctor sighed at the lack of foreplay but accepted it due to the risky nature of their al-fresco teasing; Sherlock pulled out a sachet of lube from his pocket and began slicking up John’s cock and his own fingers, pressing them inside himself without delay until he was rocking back and forth on his three long digits.

The two men stilled as a noise startled the birds in the trees; checking their surroundings neither man saw anything and so continued their preparation. John pulled his lover down for a deep kiss as Sherlock straddled his waist and rubbed their stiff pricks together, grinding down and moaning at the perfect friction. John placed a hand on Sherlock’s hip and held him steady as the younger man lifted and began to work John’s cock into himself, inch by inch. Soft groans and pants of desire escaped his lips as he rocked his hips and relaxed his muscles; there was still a burn and ache deep inside him as he stretched around John’s length, but Sherlock enjoyed the sensation of being taken by his lover.

The sounds of the waterfall and nature continuing around them gave the experience a surreal feel as they kissed passionately and ran their hands up and down one another’s bodies. John held Sherlock’s hip tightly and circled his lover’s pale neck to pull him down for a passionate kiss, as his hips began circling and desperately searching for the bundle of nerves which Sherlock needed stimulating. John dug his heels into the ground, aware at how ridiculous he looked wearing walking boots and trousers around his thighs but he shook the shyness away and concentrated fully on thrusting up into the tight, wet heat of Sherlock’s body. The detective was mewling happily from above, the vibrations travelling along John’s lips as they rocked together, harder and faster. Their bodies arched into the perfect pleasure as John slipped his hand from Sherlock’s hips down to his cock, encircling his shaft and tugging roughly, opening his eyes from the kiss to watch Sherlock shudder and gasp at the sensations.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, his hips circling faster before feeling the press of John’s cock against his prostate. “Christ, John.”

“Shhh,” John giggled, pulling Sherlock down for a kiss. “Noisy bugger.”

Sherlock whined low and deep in his throat as he rode John; his cock leaked profusely and freely over John’s warm fist as the doctor flicked his wrist in the way which Sherlock preferred.

The two men thrust and circled, grunted and moaned before John felt the familiar stirrings at the base of his spine; he pulled away from Sherlock’s lips and groaned that he was close, picking up the pace on Sherlock’s cock as the younger man bounced relentlessly, uncaring at the loud noises he was creating or the comically bouncing curls which entranced John. Sherlock stiffened, his back frozen as he dropped his head back between his shoulder blades and wailed as he came, covering John’s pale stomach and his waterproof coat which had been hastily unzipped. John felt the tightening of Sherlock’s insides around his cock and gave a final shaky thrust before he unloaded his own cum inside his lover. Sherlock hunched forward, seemingly unaware of the cum which was now spreading between their clothes as he kissed John’s face and neck, before sucking on his earlobe.

“You’ve ruined me,” Sherlock grumbled into John’s ear. “I’ll never be able to move ever again.”

“Hey, it was your idea!” John insisted, stroking back the curls from Sherlock’s face and kissing the corner of his plush lips. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up and his whole demeanour changed as he heard a noise which set him immediately on edge. His face turned to the sky to allow him to better hear, John could only watch as Sherlock quickly jumped from John’s softening prick with a slickness which spread across both of their thighs. The detective efficiently tugged up his trousers and grimaced at the mess coating his skin as it rubbed against the fabric before nudging John with his boot clad toe. “Get dressed, quickly.”

John swore, cursing Sherlock in adventurous ways as he wriggled into his trousers and smoothed back his hair just in time to watch as a large, shaggy dog came running through the woods and jumped into the water beneath the waterfall. John and Sherlock looked around for its owner, but found nobody in the local area.

“Who’s do you think it is then?” John asked as the dog came trotting over to the two men and shook its wet fur into their direction. The two men hastily stepped back to avoid the filthy water before Sherlock was kneeling on the ground and checking the dog for identification.

“Doesn’t seem to have on a collar or ID,” he shrugged.

John frowned. “We can’t just leave it here.”

The dog wagged its tail in Sherlock’s direction and butted its head against the detective’s large hand, smearing water and muck across the skin. Sherlock grinned and gave a good hearty scratch behind the canine’s ears before the dog began to walk a few paces before stopping and staring at the two men.

“I think it wants us to follow,” Sherlock insisted, grabbing the rucksack and his coat before heading off after the stray.

“Fucking hell, have I wandered into an episode of Lassie?!” John exclaimed before setting off after his lover.

* * *

 

The two men walked through the various pathways, following the dog who looked behind to check his followers were still there before stilling at a large overturned tree. Sherlock bent at the waist and smiled, gesturing for John to come closer.

Beneath the tree were three small pups. Their eyes were open and they excitedly jumped at the grey shaggy dog who seemed to be their mother; Sherlock gasped and grabbed John’s arm before lowering a hand to the tree stump, watching as the mother sniffed him before licking his skin. The puppies then ventured out of their shelter and snuffled and licked at Sherlock’s hand quizzically.

“They look fairly healthy,” Sherlock insisted, checking the puppies over. “Two girls and a boy. About eight weeks.”

“How do you know?” John laughed.

“Spent a lot of time in the kennels at the manor,” Sherlock shrugged. “We can’t leave them here.”

“We can’t take them back,” John argued. “We can’t look after four dogs at Baker Street.”

Sherlock pulled a face before grabbing his phone and calling a number which John couldn’t see. After a few rings, a female voice answered and Sherlock immediately turned on his charm. John could only smile and shake his head as Sherlock began to wheedle his own way once more.

“Mummy?”

* * *

John sat with his feet up on the sofa bracketed between Sherlock’s long legs as they watched crap telly. The nights were beginning to get darker much earlier, resulting in both men snuggling together under the blankets on nights when they didn’t have a case. John’s concentration was broken by a soft snuffling from below causing him to lower his head and grin before picking up the small puppy they had brought back from the woods. His mother and sisters had been taken to the Holmes Manor to be raised on the land but John had grown fond of the plucky character and brought him home. They had named him Bernard and found that he fit into life in Baker Street perfectly; he was content to wander around the flat when the men were in and snuggle with Mrs Hudson when they were out. His grey tufty fur was constantly tousled and messy looking and he had odd coloured eyes which made him look both silly and adorable.

“Come on then,” John grinned, lifting the puppy onto his belly and allowing it to paw at him for a moment before settling down.

“Are you happy?” Sherlock grumbled into John’s ear, kissing the sensitive patch of skin behind.

“Of course,” John nodded. “Are you?”

“Absolutely,” Sherlock smiled. “I only wish I'd known it would take a broken ankle and a tube up the penis to get here.”

John laughed before relaxing into Sherlock’s embrace. Enjoying the silence around them.


End file.
